Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Once Upon An Afternoon Dreary

Once upon a noontime dreary, while I pondered, dull and weary,

Over a many a queer and boring subject for my daily blog,

While I typed, my fingers bustling, suddenly there came a rustling

As of something gently fussing, rustling through my mental fog.

" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "trying to disrupt my blog.

Only this, no feral hog."


I think I have a visitor. That's not the same as an invited guest. This is a visitor that is heard and not seen. As I sit, typing, in the dark confines of my basement lair, I hear noises behind me. Oh, it's not the good stuff like footsteps or stacks of magazines falling or peeing in a toilet or voices or doors opening. None of the previous phantom sounds that sometimes manifest themselves in my Mansion. No.

This is a rustling sound. Rustling, like a rodent. Let's be clear. I don't live in filth, like those collector people who can't throw anything away, and I don't have a three-foot thick carpet of old Domino's Pizza boxes that I walk on. No. But I have a basement office in which I store things that I have carted home from school as I no longer need them. Cart them home in plastic bags from The Devil's Playground, or in cardboard boxes from Save-A-Lot, and set them down, and don't always put them back on the shelves promptly. Things like books, and videotapes, and three-ring binders, and in/out box thingies.

Now there is that rustling. I called The Pony in for support, and it stopped. We turned on the lights. The Pony left to watch TV, because that's more important than his mother being woven into a giant spider web and having her body fluids sucked out until she is just a husk of her former self. There's that rustling again.

OK, so I called in The Pony again, and he heard it. He says it is coming from under his desk in the corner, from a Devil's bag. It is so old that it is the blue plastic. There must be an extension cord or something in it, because it had to be put there by #1, who does all of the computer connecting. The Pony was just saying that he saw something when the phone rang. It scared me out of my skin, that durn Loretta Lynn singing Fist City. Which tells you that it was my cell phone, which doesn't work very good down here, Note To Self: don't expect to use my cell phone if I'm ever in Joe Biden's secret bunker.

The call was my mother, warning us that there's a severe thunderstorm warning until 7:00 p.m. She's better than a weather radio, the ol' gal! But as I was telling her we were having a bit of a crisis, my cell phone decided I had talked long enough. I shut down my dial-up and tried the land line, but wouldn't you know it, she was trying to call me back. I finally got ahold of her, and explained my situation. In the meantime, The Pony had laid down on the tile floor and was slithering like a snake towards that desk. The Pony is a chicken with things supernatural, but a regular explorer when it comes to wildlife. I told him to knock it off until I was off the phone. He kept insisting he saw something yellow.

My mom's idea was to take a book and put it on the bag so whatever is in there can't get out. Of course that was her idea. She is 10 miles away and doesn't hear rustling behind her back in the dark. Perhaps I've never mentioned that the first year we had finished the basement, one of the boys pointed to the back of a fluffy stuffed chair and said, "Spider." I turned my head to look, and saw one as big as my hand. Just like #1 told me about one in the cabin. It was not furry like a tarantula. Just a big-a$ spider walking across the back of a chair. We called for HH, but he never arrived in time, and we never saw it again. How long do spiders live, anyway? My mom's idea was to put a book on the opening of the Devil's bag so the critter could not escape. My mom assured me that if I didn't show up at our arranged meeting place at 2:15, she will go to school and drive #1 to his open gym. THEN she will come out here to see if I'm woven into a tangled web. Because that's how she rolls. The boys outrank me in her affections.

The Pony did not like the book idea, since I was expecting HIM to put the book on the bag. We have decided to let Farmer H deal with it. He might be needed an addition to his menagerie. I'm hoping it's just another field mouse that has found it's way into the Mansion by way of the welcome portal we call the crack under the basement door. That happened years ago, and we had to trap that cute little uninvited visitor, which as you know involves the snapping of his neck. The cats and dogs have left us a dead mouse, bluebird, and frog already this week. They have let something invade the perimeter. A court martial may be in order. Oh, and this morning, I killed another spider in the kitchen. I'm about ready to cry "ORKIN!"

All is strangely quiet at this moment.


DeadpanAnn said...

So you never found it? So it could be sneaking up behind you RIGHT NOW??!

I had to call Orkin, or someone, because of the spiders and weird not-really-ants and the millions of millipedes that have invaded us. And I may have seen a roach in the kitchen last week...or a roachbug, as my momma calls them.

No, I don't live in filth, but I do often leave dishes in the sink overnight, and I don't always wipe down the counters before I go to bed, so maybe I'm to blame. As soon as I saw the roach, I declared that from that moment on I would have to wipe down the counters, wash all dishes, and take out the trash every single night no matter how badly I wanted to just go to sleep and deal with it in the morning. I've stuck to that, and haven't seen my roach friend since. But the exterminator guy is coming tomorrow morning anyway, just in case. I've got enough problems, ya know.

What's that behind you?

Chickadee said...

So what was it? Ohhh I can't take the suspense!

Let's pray it's not the owner of that big a$$ snake skin.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Miss Ann,
Do you want me to look like Einstein? I don't need my hair standing on end from your GOTCHA tactics. You must be the one, when telling those hook-armed killer stories around the campfire, who grabs the person next to you and scares the bejeebers out of him.

Are your millipedes four inches long. Huh? Are they? Because through all your Mississippi braggin' about having the most millipedes in your house, I Missouri claim to have the BIGGEST millipede in MY house.

Thank the Gummi Mary, it was not the snakeskin donator. It was a big freakin' millipede. Just like a snake, but with legs.