There Won't Be a Picture With This One!

Well, (I know, a very deep subject but I promise this one is one of the shallowest you will ever read). So much so that you might as well (X) me out right now and be on your way.

But for the brave of heart who decide to stay, it went down this way:

A week or so before Christmas we had an unexpected visitor. In fact, in the four years that we've lived in this house, they had never darkened our door or our floor, or come to visit at all. At least as far as we knew.

One day I went bounding (well, that is a little strong for someone my age but they say that VERBS are what it's all about these days--in writing--you know, it used to be adjectives--well, anyway I have veered somewhat) out into the garage for some more Christmas decorations. Just as I opened the door from the laundry room into the garage, I see our visitor at breakneck speed, probably a millionth of a second, dash to hide from me.

Now I don't know about you but I am like my mother-in-law about this. She used to say and I quote, "I'd just as soon be shot as scared to death." Well, that was my exact sentiments at that moment. Why does something so tiny at breakneck speed, scared to death of me, scare me to death?

I promise I won't go into all the gory details of why I end up in a fetal position and sucking my thumb for weeks on end after an episode like this, but I blame it mainly on watching my mother "fight" with a broom what we called a wharf rat when I was little. It was in our kitchen and as big as a cat. My mom won--she has always been my heroine. A half century later I visited Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco and I can say those in California had no bragging rights over the one we encountered.

Anyway, I know you are just dying to know the "rest of the story."

Normally, during the winter, I don't make that many trips to the garage but during the weeks before Christmas with lots of baking (and the second refrigerator located there) and decorating, it seemed that every hour on the hour I was making a trip to the garage.

These times I wasn't bounding though. It was more like going to the garage door, knocking hard a few times and jiggling all the jingle bells on the door handle (making sure I gave him plenty of time to hide) and then making my appearance.

One day, my husband overhears all of the loud banging and clanging commotion, --I had just gotten out to the garage, over to the refrigerator (all the time with my little friend on my mind) when the door to the house suddenly opens and my husband says my name quite loudly. It scared me so badly that out from me erupts this other-world gutteral "What?" at the top of my leathered lungs, which scared him to death.

Then I got tickled and had to pick myself up off the garage floor from laughing so hard at the both of us.

But yesterday took the cake.

I needed to make a quick trip to the post office, it was quite cold, was in a hurry, didn't put my coat on but just threw it in the seat beside me. When I got back home and pushed the garage door opener button, (my friend naturally on my mind), my hand brushed the fur on the hood of my coat laying in the seat beside me. Would you believe me if I told you that we now have a huge hole in the wall of our garage??

No, no, not really--but once again, I thought of my mother-in-law and what wisdom she instilled in me over the years. I'll be glad when I can stop thinking about her for a while.

I am linking to Simple Pleasures. The simple pleasure?? laughing at myself


Project Simple Pleasures2