Pages

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

06 July 2011

Killer Frogs

(*Author's note:  No frogs were hurt in the writing of this blog.)


Bottom line:  When we were kids, my sister Andrea was one of Satan's Minions; pure, unadulterated, remorseless evil.  My birth when she was two years old totally and completely rained on her parade and she would not rest until the injustice of me hogging her spotlight was avenged.  She would lie awake at night plotting new ways torture me and make me suffer.  I, on the other hand, was a cloying and ass-kissing obsequious little toad who tried desperately to get her to liiiiiiiike meeeeeeeee.  (In hindsight, I probably would have tortured me, too.  I mean seriously, I was practically begging for it.)

One time, and one time ONLY,  I achieved the Upper Hand.  It took 11 years, but she finally took one step too many over the line and I had my revenge.  (And it was sweet.  And creamy.  And delicious.)  

We lived on a 10 acre piece of property over-looking the Feather River in Oroville, CA.  Summers were hot and brutal, but my mother was an air conditioner Nazi who believed that 115 degree heat could be combated with a box fan or occasional use of a swamp cooler.  (She was wrong.  Oh, so very wrong.  WRONG, MOM.  The only thing grosser than sweating to death in your sweltering house is sweating to death while a swamp cooler blows damp, moldy air on you.)  Nights were endless because trying to sleep in the stifling house was generally next to impossible.  Since we lived on 10 acres with no neighbors within a mile, we were occasionally allowed to pitch the tent in the front yard and sleep outside next to the pump house, where it was much, much cooler.  


(Upon re-reading this, I realize how much this makes us sound like a bunch of hillbillies.  "Yup, Sissy and I's gonna pitch a tent up yonder..."  Thanks again, Mother.)

One fateful, hot August night, my mother allowed us to have a slumber party.  We both had three friends over.  Andrea and her friends were going to sleep in the tent (I don't remember why she and her friends were awarded the tent, but I'm sure it had something to do with my mother being slightly afraid of her) while my friends and I had to lay our sleeping bags out in the livingroom and point a fan in our general direction.

Somewhere along the way, everything went awry.  I do not remember the exact string of events, but my sister did something that was hateful and horrible, which got me into trouble and caused me to be punished in front of my friends.


Line... Her.  She crossed it and it was determined that she. must. pay.  


Enough was enough.  She was going down


My friends and I put our pointed little heads together and devised a plan... a plan that was so clever, so diabolical, so devious, that we would go down in infamy and ride off into the sunset in a blaze of glory.


"Mwaaaaahahahahahahahahaaaaaa!" we said to eachother, rubbing our little hands in glee.


We tippy-toed outside to the damp, cool area behind the pump house, where jillions of little green tree frogs hopped and chirped merrily.  We scooped up as many of those little reptiles (amphibians?  Hmmm) as we could carry and scampered over to the tent fast as we could caper, tossing the frogs inside.  We giggled and tee-heed as we put frog after frog after frog into the sleeping bags, pillows, and blankets that would eventually be snuggled into by my evil, evil sister and her equally evil (by association) friends.


It was done.


All we had to do... was wait.


Eventually my mother ordered us all to be quiet and go to sleep, so my sister and her pals tromped out to the tent, thumbing their noses at us as we prepared to spend the night in the stiflingly hot house.  All was serene, all was quiet, until the first screams floated out of the tent and into the night.


My mother went flying outside, preparing to ward off ax murderers  and the boogy man while my friends and I clustered around the window, looking on.


Flashlights were going crazy inside the tent and we could hear the girls carrying on as if there were a tiger in their midst.  My sister shot out of the tent like her ass was on fire, dancing and crying and slapping herself in the head, screaming, "It's in my hair!!!  It's in my hair!!"  


My mother finally got the girls calmed down and de-frogged and eventually they all came wandering inside, sobbing and traumatized.  We sat up in our sleeping bags, wide-eyed and innocent, and asked what had happened.


My mother explained that somehow, hundreds of frogs had migrated from the pump house and into the tent, crawling into the girls sleeping bags and, as they were falling asleep, hopped onto their faces and into their hair, crawled across their necks and up their backs...


Perfect.  


We never said a word and no one suspected a thing.


We all wound up sleeping in the house that night and in the morning, my mother sent my sister and her friends out to de-frog the tent and take it down.  


How do you spell "Karmic Justice"?


I did finally tell my sister, after we became adults, that the frogs were the end result of years of tyranny.  We are now great friends and have a wonderful relationship (I like to believe that somehow, the plague of frogs exercised the demons that caused her to be so rotten... You're welcome, Andrea) but I must confess that sometimes, late at night, as I lie awake in bed, I can still hear the faint screaming...


"It's in my haaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiir...."


Heeeeeheheheheheheheheeee!!!