Comedy of Errors

I'm sitting upstairs last night at the computer at about 6:30, when I hear the front door open and the rattle of what could have been keys but what I instead assummed was the rattle of hungry teeth from the Thing Under the Stairs. I raced downstairs where, needless to say, my husband--come home a day early from his trip--was a bit taken aback by my sudden appearance with a flaming torch, a can of Raid, and my screams of, "Die, die die!!"

I'd like to say our evening improved after that point, but it proceeded into a comedy of errors. The "Check Engine" light on our Explorer, which he'd taken on his trip, had come on, and he asked me to follow him to the Ford dealership in my car so he could drop it off for repairs. Fine. He hops in the Explorer, I hop in my car, and we're off.

Except I don't go to the Ford dealership. I go to the Chevy dealership. Why? Because as a general rule, we take most of our cars there for repairs. We live in a rural area, it's close by, and they'll work on any car, Chevy or not. I heard "Ford" but thought "Chevy." Sit-com plots have been based on less.

So I'm sitting there, singing along to Clay Aiken's uninspired version of some Christmas tune, when I notice that the Explorer, with my husband in it, is nowhere to be seen.

I circle the lot and don't see him. Oh no! He must have stalled on the road! So I backtrack, looking for him. No sign. Now--and I do this sort of thing more often than I care to admit--I panic. Of course he was at the Chevy dealership. I probably just didn't give a good enough look around. In fact (and my face turns red at the thought), he was probably chasing me down as I pulled out, trying to get my attention while I drove blithly on.

I race back to the Chevy dealership and circle again. No sign of him. This time I am sure of it.

Which means...oh no again...he is stalled somewhere and I must have just missed him. I peel rubber out of the lot and drive the 1/2 mile back to our house, peering down ravines in case he lost control and tumbled to his death.

Still no sign. So I again (God help me) manage to convince myself that he really was in the lot I'd just driven around five times, and that I again had just overlooked him. Back to the dealership, where this time I actually park the car, get out and walk the lot. No sign of him.

Then, and only then, does the word "Ford" occur to me and it dawns on me why I can't find him. I race onto the highway for the 2 mile drive to the FORD (not Chevy, but F-O-R-D) dealership.

He's not there.

Some old guy starts crooning "White Christmas" on the radio and I tell him to...well...let's just say it wasn't a very Christmas-like thing I suggested he do to himself.

I give up and go home. A few minutes later my husband arrives. We shake our heads at one another, each realizing what has occurred.

For having to drive back out to the Ford dealership after a 6-hour drive home from his trip, he was in a pretty good mood though.

I think he was just grateful that this time I didn't meet him at the door with a torch and a death wish.

(For tips on how to improve your love life, please e-mail the author)

Hot Showers & Creatures Under the Stairs

I have discovered I really, really, really, really, really like hot showers. I know this because our hot water pipes froze and I've been without hot water for almost 48 hours. Our home was built in 1907 and while it boasts many cool features such as 6 fireplaces, it also has a tendency toward frozen pipes if the temperature dips below, say, 70.

But now the water is back on, I'm clean, dishes are clean, laundry is churning. I do so love modern appliances.

The creature I mentioned in my first post chose not to attack last night, for which I am grateful. I did still hear some snuffling in the walls though. And now I have a new fear to add to my list.

It occurred to me that since the raccoon trap we've set outside is baited with cat food, there's a good chance one of the many roaming neighborhood cats might get trapped inside. So I was hoofing it outside last night in freezing temperatures, checking to make sure "Spike" or "Mr. Jingles" wasn't trapped and freezing, sending the neighbors after me with pitchforks because they think I'm trapping their cats.

If you know me, you know I have a soft spot for animals, cats in particular. In fact, so far this year I've received a cat book, a cat bookmark, and cat Christmas cards. When I opened the card I turned to my husband and announced matter-of-factly, "It's happened. I have become that woman. The one people give cat gifts too." I'm only 34, which seems a bit young to be so stereotyped, but there it is. When my friends are out in stores shopping for me they are saying things like, "Oh just grab her anything with a cat on it and she'll love it." On the one hand, how dare they? On the other, yeah, I pretty much will love it if it has a cat on it.

A ton of work to do today. Working on a story on how to find the best dog trainer for your animal, and just received an assignment with a 48-hour turnaround date to rewrite Web site content.

So off to grab coffee (checking one more time to make sure no trapped cats are present outside), my laptop, and some inspiration.

Cheers.

Welcome

Why a blog? A couple of reasons.

One, I'm a publicity hound. Luuuv the attention.

Two, seems like a good way to scare family members into docile submission. What? You don't like my cooking? Hey, you know what I just remembered? That time you cheated on your college entrance exams. Well anyway, we'll order in pizza, but hang on a minute. There's something I want to post on my blog...

And third, and this, really, is the most important reason for starting this blog, is that there is some huge, monstrous, mutant creature living underneath my stairs making growling noises, my husband is out of town, the cats are hiding, and this blog may very well end up being a testament of my last moments on earth.

The demon-creature showed up several months ago. My husband and I heard scrabbling under the stairs and assumed it was a mouse. Paid a bunch of money for a pest service to come out, the noises stopped for the 2 hours the guy was here, then picked up again as soon as he left. My guess was the mouse had installed some sort of babysitter cam to tell when the coast was clear.

The scrabblings continuted but the thing was inside our walls and we couldn't get to it. We live in an older home with plaster walls, so installing a nail to hang a frame is enough to send piles of plaster tumbling down. I didn't dig on the pest guy's idea of "drilling a hole in your wall and dropping posion down inside."

Now of course I wish I'd listened. Yesterday there was GROWLING and YIPPING and ANGRY CHIRRPING coming from the under the stairs. Once my jumping up and down on top of the stairs and yelling "Go away, go away, go away!" didn't solve the problem, I was out of ideas.

I called a new pest guy who calmly informed me in a polite southern drawl that I mayhap had a rabid squirrel in there.

AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!

Sobbing, afriad for my cats lives (do rabid squirrels attack? I betcha they do. And if it's a flying rabid squirrel, we're screwed for sure), I called Animal Control. They told me it could be a racoon which while still terrifying, at least doesn't conjure images of a dripping white foam Cujo-squirrel.

Animal Control guy set out racoon traps, baited them with cat food, and left me here to suffer my fate. I woke up at 5:30 this morning to the sound of gnawing behind the wall of my bedroom closet. Nothing like a little wood gnawing to rush you out of bed. And the cats are no help. They won't even scootch over to make room under the bed to let me hide with them.

Until tomorrow (I hope).