I was just awakened by my husband who informed me that, “Tigger just caught a lizard and brought it into the living room. I took it outside and I’m pretty sure it’s still alive, but it had definitely been chewed”.

Last weekend we went to the Tennessee Aquarium which is, without a doubt, one of my absolute favorite places on earth.

As we were innocently walking through the doorway into the exhibit of seahorses my husband suddenly grabbed my elbow and said, very calmly, “Just keep moving.”

I was instantly alert, because that is his code for informing me that, “HOLY F*&%, THERE IS A SNAKE IN THE IMMEDIATE VICINITY!!”

Once he had deposited me at a safe distance he went back to check out the snake, because he is a guy, and guys think snakes are cool, and apparently there’s nothing anyone can do to change that. As a matter of fact, when I was telling this story to a friend of mine this weekend he said, “Cool. Did I ever tell you about the time that I kissed a snake?” (Me: Hm, really? Great. Never touch me again.)

There was quite a crowd of people surrounding the aquarium worker who wanted to touch the snake, despite the fact that every few minutes she would occasionally broadcast such helpful alerts as, “Make sure you stay away from its head.”

My husband, of course, was very excited about the whole experience and wanted to tell me all about it when we met up again.

I had a hard time listening due to the fact that he had let the snake coil its tail around his arm, ON PURPOSE, and not only that, but he had actually enjoyed the entire experience.

Me: Why did they make you wash your hands before you touched the snake?

My husband: They wanted to make sure I didn’t give it any germs.

Me (dripping with sarcasm): Oh yeah, wouldn’t that be a shame?

Today I went back to the chiropractor to see if she could ungnarl my back any further. She decided to put me on this special machine with a fancy name. But truly it should be called The Rack, because that is what it is. They strap you into a harness and then pull the ends of your body in opposite directions, which results in tremendous pain and The Renewed Inability Of Your Legs To Support Your Own Body Weight.

I managed to stumble into a chair in the hallway, and I was firmly prepared to sit there for the rest of my life if it meant I never had to feel that much pain again. Unfortunately this meant that I overheard the entire conversation taking place between the therapist and the next patient on The Rack.

Patient: (Being Dramatic, with lots of moaning and groaning) I think they should just take us all outside like they do with old horses and shoot us.

Therapist: Oh that reminds me of this piano recital I had when I was ten.

Me: not really seeing the connection.

Therapist: My piano teacher lived on a ranch out in the country, so after everyone finished performing they took us all outside, brought up a steer, and shot it right in the forehead while we all watched.

Me: EEWW!

Therapist: (Not really seeming all that concerned.) Then they hoisted it up on a truck (I sort of tuned out right here because this part of the story involved very yucky things such as slicing open and things falling out.) Then we all walked by and touched it. And then we went back inside and had punch and cookies.

Me: What?!The?!F*&@?!

Patient: Or maybe they should just wring our necks.

(Me: Dude! With the death wish!)

Therapist: You know, that’s a lot harder to do than it looks. I had to wring a chicken’s neck one time so that I could feed it to my snake.

Me: Why, God, why? Why did THIS have to be the moment when I lost the use of my legs?!

Therapist: We used to feed it rabbits…

Me: Dear God in heaven! Save me now!

Therapist: …but you know, rabbits can fight back. They have really sharp claws, so the snake could get hurt.

Me: Oh, heaven forbid the snake gets injured!

Therapist: But the rabbits still have to be warm when you feed them to the snake.

Me: What happened? Where the hell am I?

Therapist: So we had to put the rabbits in a burlap bag [and do very bad things to them resulting in their death] before we gave them to the snake.

Me: Holy Mother of God, that may be the worst thing I’ve ever heard. And I still can’t walk away! This day SUCKS!

Therapist: So one day we decided to give it a chicken instead. We almost had to take the snake to the vet, because it took him 4 hours to get past the wings, and we were worried that he wouldn’t make it.

Me: Seriously. Am I on drugs? Because if I’m not, I think I need to get some.

Take (1) one cat who has figured out how to open the laundry room’s bi-fold doors.

Add (1) feather duster lying unguarded in the laundry room, and

Three (3) super destructive felines, angry about being left alone for the week,

and you will receive the following hysterical phone call while on vacation for the holidays:

“Oh my God! I just got to your house, and the floor is covered in feathers. I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure your cats have killed your bird!”

I recently installed this new program called Hit Tail on my blog, a new search tool to help you identify keywords people use to find you and your website.

So I checked it today, and guess what I found? One of the ways that people are finding me is by entering the phrase “ostrich vomit” into their search engines.

How cool is that?!

I can only assume that this is due to the many posts where I profess my extreme love for Mike Rowe and “Dirty Jobs”. At least, I certainly hope that is the case. Otherwise, I may have some issues I need to look into.

After all the posts I’ve written on tub poo, my love of the word “ass”, and other things hiney-related, it really should not have come as such a surprise when my husband informed me that on the episode of “Dirty Jobs” where Mike had to clean out a hippo aquarium, one of the hippos was named Jenny.

Of course.

Today, I was attacked by nature.

I was outside, doing my part to be a good neighbor and bring the trash can back down to the house, when suddenly I noticed an odd sensation in my right hand.

So I looked down and discovered that half of my right hand was entirely covered in fire ants, and the “odd sensation” was actually THE BURNING PAIN OF THEIR FLAMING, VENEMOUS BITES!

Not surpisingly I’ve spent this entire day manically flexing my hand to make sure I haven’t lost any mobility in my muscles, and wondering if there is any such thing as “Fire Ant Anti-Venom” and should I really be making more of an effot to find some, along with trying really hard not to freak out and envision their poison slowly yet relentlessly traveling up my arm in order to wreak its deadly havoc throughout my entire body.

So I just emailed this beautifully crafted story of my day to a friend of mine, and do you know his response was? “Be thankful, because when I get bitten by fire ants, I can die.”

Thanks, dude. Way to completely eliminate All Dramatic Impact Whatsoever from my story.

And don’t even get me started on the conversation I just had with another male friend who, when I gently suggested that women might possibly have had more of a role in the shaping of our history than would be suggested by the traditional, “accepted” texts, went off on a rant against “revisionist” history, where clearly “revisionist” was a code word for “fascist, communist, anti-American, mother-hating, puppy-killing, Nazi brainwashing propaganda.”

What does a girl have to do around here to get a friendly audience?

…and got something much better.

Here’s why I ask. My husband just called them because he just remembered that it was his dad’s birthday 2 days ago and we did not call or send a card and now we are totally on their *&%# list.

So he came out into my office after he got off the phone and he was wearing the face you’d expect on someone who has discovered that, even if you’ve been married for 10 years, and are a responsible, hard-working, law-abiding, home-owning grownup, you are never to old to be in big trouble with your parents.

Then he said, “My parents have a new pet.” So I thought that maybe he was looking down because their dog, Riley, had died.

But no. Riley is just fine. It was that he was responsible for breaking to me the news that, “They have adopted a snake.” (Snakes only being, to my mind, The Most Terrifying Things In Existence.)

Apparently they had some people working on their lawn, and these people brought them outside to show them the snake they’d found.

“We need to get rid of this snake,” said the lawn people. What an excellent response.

Other appropriate responses:

“Bring me the flame thrower!”

or, “Why the *%$@ don’t we have a flame thrower?!”

My father-in-law’s response: “Wait. Let me look that snake up on the Internet.”

Long story short, the snake is now living in a special snake spot in their backyard, almost directly touching the outside of the room that my husband and I stay in when we go to visit my in-laws. And I just can’t help wondering, is there a message in that for me?