Nightmares Really Do Come True

Well, dear reader, it is one of those times when I feel everything I touch goes awry. From helping out in the barn to making soap to cooking to choosing a new hairstyle, absolutely everything goes in the complete opposite direction of how I intend for it to go. Something has to be in retrograde, or I have angered the universe, or perhaps I am being tested, but something is out of alignment in my world.

For example, my favorite fluffy bummed rooster, Little Louie, has a respiratory infection. I brought him into the heated garage, created a comfortable little box, called the vet, and followed the vet's directions. Happily, Louie is doing just fine. With the weather warming, he will return to the coop with his friends. However, I have been carrying Louie around like a cat. I snuggle him and have him sit on my lap when I type on the computer. After spending a considerable amount of time with this bird, I noticed a small bug on my hand, then one on my sweatshirt, then another one on my pants. Louie has Northern Fowl Mites! If Louie has mites, so does the rest of my flock. The flock, Louie, and the coop have been treated; however, back to my story. I had mites on me. Mites can't hurt or live on a human, but they're gross. 

With a solid case of the heeby-jeebies, I went to the laundry room, stripped down to my undies, all the while The Bean followed me, tormenting me about bugs, chickens, and the spreading of bugs. I threw my clothes in the washer on the hottest setting, and as I passed through the kitchen with The Bean on my heels, she yelled, "Oh, good Lord, there is a snake in the kitchen!" I screamed, peed my pants, and went running for the staircase. Why the staircase? I suppose, because it was higher ground. At this point, I am crying with pee running down my leg, standing in my now wet underwear. The Bean remained surprisingly calm for the girl who won't walk with me because she is afraid she sees a snake. I called Eric, who was in the shop, and frantically told him to come down to the house because there was a snake in the kitchen. Do you know how he responded to my desperate, tearful plea for help, dear reader? He laughed! 

Once he came in, he saw me crying in my underwear. I announced I had peed my pants, and I'm still cowering on the staircase. This made him laugh even harder, which only made me angrier and more tearful. I declared that not everything is a f*****g joke, and he needed to find the f*****g snake before it crawled under something. He did not see it. I had not seen it up to this point. Yes, I panicked over a snake I had not seen. Do not judge me. We have a bookshelf cabinet on the back of the island, facing the dining room. This set of cabinets is crafted to resemble a piece of furniture, with legs in front of the kick plate. Eric declared that he didn't see a snake. I cautiously crept down the stairs, tiptoed into the kitchen, and instructed him to look under the bookshelf. 

Lo and behold, curled up against the wall was a tiny little milk snake. It wasn't even a foot long. However long it was, it was a snake nonetheless. I screamed again and ran back to the stairs. This time, I am really sobbing and saying I can't live in this house any longer. Eric continued to laugh at me. He took care of the little snake and then flushed it down the toilet. Then he began the chore of talking me down. I was panic-stricken, imagining a den of snakes under our house. I am threatening to call an exterminator, move to Aruba, purchase traps, have a priest come in and bless the house, and crying because a snake in the house is surely a bad omen. Sigh. I am a lot.

However, finding a snake in my kitchen is seriously one of my greatest nightmares. I heard a story about an old lady who lived alone. She came downstairs to find a large black snake draped over her kitchen counter, and another curled up beside her stove. She was so frightened that she moved into a nursing home and refused to go back into her house. This story has stuck with me for years and is the stuff of nightmares. 

In reality, the little milk snake was no bigger than a very, very large nightcrawler, but a snake is a snake. After I had had a good cry, taken a shower, put on dry clothes, and stopped shaking, I did an internet search. Just because I saw one snake doesn't mean there is a den full of snakes in my basement. Snakes are mostly solitary creatures. An exterminator cannot help me; a wildlife control officer is the best option. I don't have much faith in that option. I did indeed purchase traps, 25 to be exact. However, I am too frightened to go to the basement to set them, and Eric is kicking that can down the road. Instead, they are sitting on the kitchen counter awaiting his motivation to set said traps. Sigh. He is only doing this to torment me. He tells me that. "God loves an independent woman," and he is "helping me overcome my fears by making me go to the basement,"  I tell him I will overcome my fears by moving to Aruba alone. I might take The Bean, but she continues to do a rather accurate but rude impression of me screaming and running. So, I'm unsure whether she is welcome in my tropical retreat. 

Now, I refuse to go into a dark room, so every room has at least one lamp on. I won't walk barefoot because what if there is another snake and I step on it, or it bites me. Also, because Eric flushed the dead snake down the toilet, I now flush before I use the toilet in case it has reanimated and is slithering back up the pipe. I know that none of this is rational, but the thing about fear is that it is the opposite of rational. Sigh. 

Currently, I am weighing my options. I might move to Aruba alone because my family is rude. I could move to Ireland because they have no snakes there. I might have a team of environmental specialists come in and x-ray my walls and search every crack and crevice, or I might pay some poor sap to come in, set traps, and check them every hour. My friend, Tricia, suggested a cat. However, I have had house cats before, and they were useless at hunting mice. I'm certain they will be useless hunting snakes. Now, my West Highland Terrier, Walter, was a mouse-catching machine. I'm certain my Walter would have kept me safe from a snake. I might need another Westie. I'm keeping my options open. 

So, dear reader, that was the excitement on the farm. It's definitely excitement I can do without. I'll keep you posted when I move to Aruba. Sigh. On this February day, stay safe, be smart, keep your options open, nightmares do come true, and keep washing your hands.