Well, it's that time again - Alligator hunting season!
Nearly a quarter of the front page of our local paper (bless you Herald and all the joy you bring to my life) was devoted to the play-by-play account of how a group of Rock Hillians brought down a terrifying 12-footer.
"It took the four guys - working in tandem teams of two, rotating through arms warn slap out - three hours to boat the monster. . . Honeycutt ended it with a gun shot behind the gator's head."
And naturally (what else does one do with a 12 foot alligator), they stopped at the truck scales at the Flying J Travel Plaza on their way home.
Just in case you were wondering, the alligator PLUS the trailer weighed 11,380 lbs. Oh, what I would have given to be at those truck scales . . .
This is been a busy headline month for the Herald:
"Start you Christmas Liquor now." Okay, so it may have said Liqueur, but still.
"South Carolina Rock Showing at Winthrop Delayed." This was a follow-up article to the one about the rock that's shaped liked South Carolina.
I'm not sure what I like better, the fact that they wrote an article about a rock shaped like the state, that they are now taking said rock around the state for viewing, or that they wrote a follow-up article about the rock being delayed. It's a tough decision.
In addition to being the most infamous cat in the neighborhood, Bubbles has managed to get herself an enemy.
I don't know about you, but I'd much rather have someone yell at me, than have them politely tell me (with no voice inflection whatsoever) that (referring to an alleged tin foil incident on his back deck, which may or may not have involved Bubbles), "I haven't been ugly yet, but I won't put up with that."
I thought he was joking at first, but when he offered to, "take care of her" for me, and mentioned that it would involve "putting her in a box" (insert scary mobster here), I admittedly got a little protective of Bubbles (shhhh, don't tell anyone).
Now that I know there's a bounty on her head, I get a little nervous when she pulls her disappearing act. She always seems to know when we're about to leave somewhere, and hangs around just long enough for us to believe we'll be able to keep her captive in the garage, but vanishes into thin air 10 minutes from go time.
It's one thing to be at peace with natural selection (getting run over by a car, being beaten in a cat fight, finding a new home, etc), but it is quite another to know that there is a deranged cat killer on the loose.
I'm not sure I'm comfortable with a kitty murder on my head. And besides, how would I explain that to Addie? . . . "Well you see Addie, Mr. Spike (oh whoops, so much for remaining nameless) was angry (although you'd never know it from his tone of voice), and put little Bubbles in a box, and took her for a little ride." Or, "Bubbles in gone Honey. You see, she went for a long walk off a short pier."
As I've mentioned before, whooping is alive and well here. I have a friend who carries a wooden spoon on the dashboard of her car. She says that all she needs to do is hold it up, and the kids fall into line immediately. Apparently the threat of the whooping stick is just as effective, and much safer than reaching back to swat the kids while driving. Now if only they made wooden spoons with extend-able handles . . .
I totally impressed Addie's preschool teachers and fellow classmates on Addie's birthday (because, preschool is after all about showing off what a good parent you are).
I brought alphabet cookies, alphabet gummies, read an alphabet book, and sang two songs.
No one can ever accuse me of being anything but 100% dedicated to educational wellbeing of my child . . . provided I only have to keep at it for 20 minutes.
I've finally met someone who's imaginary fears far surpass mine:
The other week my cell phone dropped out of the stroller while I was walking, and a man picked it up (some of you may have received random phone calls from him).
In an effort to find its owner, he started calling people in the address book. After three tries, he finally got a hold of my friend Christine, who arranged to meet him at the park to pick up my phone (meanwhile, I was happily unaware that I'd even lost it).
Moments after hanging up the phone, she was convinced that this man had seen us walking the day before, had laid in wait for me, kidnapped me, was holding me in the back of a truck, and was now forming a plot to capture her as well.
So in a heroic act of selflessness, she called her mom for backup. It's at this point in the story when you might ask why. Naturally, her mom carries a handgun, a stun gun and pepper spray with her at all times.
All conveniently carried in a Crown Royal bag . . .
Since one must get their neurosis from somewhere, when Christine explained the situation to her mother, rather than telling her she was overreacting, her mom simply asked where she was supposed to meet her.
In a constant effort to amuse myself, I have taken up tutu making. I just know there's an untapped market for pirate apron tutus, that only I can fill. Never mind that my sewing abilities are less than adequate. I'm sure Martha never let a little thing like lack of ability stand in the way of her dreams.
I've recently learned a thing or two about the third grade dating circuit.
Apparently all it takes is for a girl to ask a boy to be her boyfriend, and low and behold he says yes.
The next door neighbor boy just recently told me that he "got a girlfriend." To which I responded, "You got a girlfriend? What, did you go to the store and pick her out?" Because, as usual, I always remember that I'm the adult . . .
I think this kid said yes, not necessarily because he liked the girl, but because she asked. Or perhaps he was caught off guard, and thought she was asking him something else.
Either way, I think that this sort of approach would resolve a lot of stress in the adult dating scene.
Something to think about my single friends.
Yesterday I lost Addie. Granted it was here at home, but I looked and looked and she was no where to be found.
Fortunately, a few minutes later, I came up the back stairs and heard a muffled, "help me." It took me a minute to figure out where it was coming from, but I finally did, and found Addie standing in the sink in the guest bathroom, without pants on. Her hands were covered with lotion, and there were little lotion prints all over the walls and mirror.
Addie has recently started using the guest bathroom (thanks Jeff) and, after using the toilet, will climb up on the counter to wash her hands.
Evidently she got up on the counter, and rather than sitting down on the edge of the sink, stood in the sink to reach the soap, but got the lotion instead, and found her hands too slippery to turn on the water, sit down, or do anything but stand there and yell for help.
That's my girl. We're very proud.