A very very bad thing happened to me last night. A gruesome, bone-chilling thing.
Allow me to set the scene.
One of the things I love about my house is warm nights on my front porch. Sitting in my low lawn chair with a tasty drink, watching the ebb and flow of the night take hold of my little neighborhood, I can feel the knots in my head and heart loosen, the constrictions ease.
Last night was the first time it was warm enough for me to partake in this little ritual of mine. I sat on my porch with my trusty little pooch (No, I don’t want to play frisbee. No, I don’t want to play fetch. No, I don’t want to play frisbee…etc). Tasty drink in hand, my own little summer concoction of OJ, Malibu and 7-up (very refreshing!), I settled in to watch the night slowly creep down my street. Little did I realize, I would soon be coming face to face with something so horrible, so terrible…dare I go on? Dare I retell this story?
As usual, I finally gave in to my pup’s insistence that I play with her. (Really, it’s not hard. I’m such a pushover for that dog.) I step off the porch, over to the grass to play with her. That’s when it happened.
I stepped on something.
Did I not mention I was barefoot? Yeah, barefoot. And I stepped on something. Squishy. Gooey. Slimy.
And then…the horrible part happened. Even now, the thought gives me chills.
Whatever I stepped on, whatever gooey slimy squishy nasty thing it was…moved.
On my bare foot.
Squishy gooey nasty slimy MOVING thing*. ON MY BARE FOOT.
Of course, my first instinct was what any sensible girl would do: Start leaping about screaming bloody carnage-drenched murder while frantically sandpapering my foot with gravel and rocks and dirt and …probably actual sandpaper too. Yeah, it was that bad. But not me, my friends. Not me.
Because I have a mental constitution of IRON. I am IRON BRAINED GIRL. I keep cool under pressure. I don’t sweat. I don’t break down.
All that breaking down, freaking out, crying panicking overreacting girly stuff – I just save it up for later.
(What? Sheesh I’m only human!)
What I did do, is instead of all that ZOMG THAT IS SO GROSS EWW EWW EWW EWW that my brain starting queueing up, instead of that I said this:
“lalallalalalalalalalala that didn’t just happen that didn’t just happen lalalalalalalalalala i’m just gonna calmly scrape my foot on this here welcome mat that feels like sandpaper LALALALALALALALALAAAAAA”.
And then I went back inside and took a shower. And finished my drink. And attempted to completely erase the memory of that gooey slimy squishy MOVING thing on my foot.
I am a rock of mental fortitude.*Ok you and I both know it was a slug. In fact, I’ve been finding them lurking by that area since it’s close to the garage, where my cat’s food is. I’ve even found a couple of them in her food bowl, chowing down. FYI: I’ve never been a big fan of slugs, but now….now I hate them just that much more.
Thanks a bunch babe. I had totally blocked out the horrible gruesome memory of last summer when I was sipping margaritas on my front patio and got up to go inside for a refill and stepped on a giant slimy slushy squishy squashy moving thing.
Blocked. It. Out.
But you’ve brought all that trauma, miraculously, to the surface.
I am so taking a shower.
I told you it was horrible and gruesome, didn’t I? You were warned! But sounds like you need a lot more margaritas. That should solve it.
And a shower.
Wait ’till you see a teeny baby slug waving cheerfully at you — from the lip of your salad bowl.
Gotta love home-grown produce.
You, sir, have just destroyed my legendary mental fortitude.
I will now commence hopping about madly yelling EEW. Excuse me, please.
At Outdoor School in the 6th grade they made us LICK banana slugs. Try exorcising THAT from your mind, Iron Brained Girl…
That’s sick and wrong.
But more importantly, did you get high? Cuz that makes you high, right? Licking slimy things, like frogs. And slugs. And ….slugs.