Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

30 August 2012

Life Lessons 101 (or 2... possibly 3)

Okay, so here's the truth about why my blogging has been slacking:

After moving, it took me a month to get my computer out and actually type in the password for the new network.

It just seemed... hard.  It was like one more thing, ya know?

I have to do everything.

I'd look at it in it's little black case and think, "I should probably type that password in now..." and then I'd be all, "NOOOoooo... IT'S TOO HARDDDDDD!!!!" and then I'd go back to puttering online on my in-laws dinosaur desk top with dial-up.  

It's hard to blog that way.  I'm not sure why, but it is.  Also?  My mother in law would then go through her files for some reason, find a picture of a fat girl in a bikini eating chocolate covered strawberries and she'd be all, "Where did THIS come form?"

Ummmm... I'm not sure?

Anyway, this morning I took the bull by the horns and set up the internet on my trusty dusty laptop.  Praise be to Jesus!!

Meanwhile, why on earth would I procrastinate so long about getting this done?  It literally... LITERALLY... took less than 2 minutes.  Two minutes I've been putting off for 30 days because IT WAS TOO HARD.


In other news, I've recently noticed that I'm nothing short of embarrassing when I see a herd of rabbits hopping out in the wild.

Or even a single rabbit dead on the side of the road.


I've never before seen wild herds of rabbits frolicking through the forest before, like Little Bunny Foo Foo.  Being from California, I have seen my share of jack rabbits.  (They aren't very exciting.  Or cute.)  But Peter Cottontail?  NEVER.

And even though I know it's a frickin' rabbit, every single time I see one, my voice hits a high note that would make Mariah Carrey try just a little bit harder and I squeal, "IT'S A BUNNY!!  LOOK!  BUNNY!  OVER THERE!  IT'S A BUNNY RABBIT!"

I die a little inside every time I do this, but I seem powerless to stop.

Even my 9 year old niece looks at me like I'm losing my marbles and informs me (yes, every.single.time.) "It's a rabbit."

I'm sure she's thinking, "Poor old Aunt Dani with her addled mind... we must be very gentle with her."

"Look, kids!  It's a goddamn bunny rabbit!"

Let's see, what else has been going on that has prevented me from blogging regularly... (Putting myself on Bunny Watch 2012 has taken up a HUGE chunk of my time, just in case you were wondering what one had to do with the other.)

Okay, so the other night I was watching Jeopardy (just in case I wasn't sure how stupid I was).  While my usual response to questions I don't know the answers to is "WHO IS SOMEONE WHO HAS NEVER BEEN IN MY KITCHEN, ALEX!" (because let's face it, that never gets old) one of the questions was about some woman who died at 109 and her claim to fame was that, prior to death (a-doiiii) she was The Oldest Living Blogger.

109 years old and this gal is taking the time to blog, dammit.

I'm 49 and am too busy pointing and squealing at bunny rabbits to set up my internet.

Humbling, it was.

Ruth Hamilton, 109 years old.  World's Oldest Blogger.  

I guess that means I have to live to be 110.  GOD, I hate pressure!

Rock on, Ruth... and do NOT RIP.  I want to hear from you from the Great Beyond.

So then I started thinking about those old lady bloggers who ride around on their motorized scooters and blog about stuff, and then I thought about those three (four?) old ladies who video tape themselves watching and commenting on youtube videos and then they post their video of them watching youtube on youtube and quite frankly, it's pretty genius.  


I'll tell you why...







GOD, I hate nature.

Sorry... I totally derailed myself there.

A few weeks ago I was faced with the following moral dilemma:

It was my own personal Sophie's Choice, you guys.

My in-laws have a pond built in front of their house, with a charming little fountain and cute frog statues.  Naturally, frogs have flocked there IN DROVES, as the addition of ceramic likenesses make them feel right at home.

My nieces have named the frogs, designated who is the mommy, who is the daddy, who are the babies, and are positive that the same frogs return year after year, after wintering in Palm Beach with the other frogs.

The first frog of spring is always Fred, the appointed patriarch of the frog family.  Thelma, his dutiful wife, usually shows up later.  Inevitably, a litter of offspring soon appear, and the girls are overcome with delight that "They cane back!"

(I know, I know... it's enough to break your heart.)

A few weekends ago both girls were outside screaming,  "A snake has Fred!  A snake has Fred!"

Dan, my Knight in Shining Armor, my Warrior, my hero, screamed like his hair was on fire and hauled ass into the house, beating the girls inside by a mile and slamming the door.

That left me standing out there, gazing into the slightly stupid eyes of Fred, who had the bad luck to have a large garter snake attached to his hind end.

Well, SNAP.  (I switched form "Shit" to "Snap" when Jessie started wandering around the house mumbling, "Well, SHIT!" to herself, over and over again.)

I picked up the snake by the tail (to the chorus of Dan yelling at me from the house, "DON'T TOUCH IT!  OH MY GOD, DANI!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" and the girls screaming, "DON'T DIE, FRED!  DON'T DIE!") and attempted to force the snake to drop the frog by dunking it's head in the water repeatedly.

Apparently the snake doesn't need to breath out of it's nose when it's under water because the frog stayed connected.

I then shook the snake really hard, hoping it would drop the frog.

It didn't.


Fucking A.

Fuck, even.

I did a little "YUCK!" dance holding the tip of the snake's tail and tried to come up with Plan C.

Nothing occurred to me.

I knew that, logically, I should let Fred face his own death like a man, but I couldn't bring myself to let the girls watch their pet frog get sucked into a snake's gullet, ass first.  

So I did something awful.

I made a choice.

I chose LIFE.

For Fred.

I killed the snake.

I know, I know... it was just doing what snakes do.  Snakes are helpful and good little critters to have around in your yard and I took one's life just because I didn't want to watch two little girls (and one giant man) cry.

If the Buddhists are correct, I am coming back in my next life as either a frog that will be swallowed by a snake, or a snake who is doomed to have it's head whacked off by a short fat woman holding a shovel.

Which totally sucks, as I was kind of planning on coming back as something awesome.  Like a diamond tiara on Kate Middleton's head.

Will the nightmares never end?


Fred survived but I don't think he learned anything from the experience.  He's sitting out there on a rock as we speak with his back to the yard, totally oblivious that he is potentially snake bait.  Next time you're on your own, Fred.  Bon appetite.