Wednesday night, Steve had mentioned something about cutting the grass and making salsa on Thursday night after work. Trying to be helpful, I asked if he had filled in the recently discovered snake-hole in our yard.
Rae: “Well, I was going to help you by cutting the grass, but now I won’t. Not while they’re out there…”
Steve: slight eyeroll.
I imagine that Steve did not believe that I would actually cut the grass because he never saw me do it before. And it would involve me partaking in physical activity.
Not that I’ve seen one in our yard…
But still. I know they’re scarier. Even their shedded skin is frightening.
And note: I couldn’t even put a real picture of a snake on this post. The idea of Googling pictures of snakes makes me hyperventilate.
After feeling like I was the size of a house all day on Thursday at work, I decided that maybe it wouldn’t be too bad of an idea to help Steve. Plus, he does pretty much everything.
The only problem was those darn snakes.
They ruin my days.
Now, you may say, “Rae, so what? You’re afraid of snakes. Get over it, you pansy.”
But this isn’t just that I’m afraid of them. It’s some sort of sick, twisted fear that causes my lungs to stop and my legs to move faster than they ever have before. I never knew I could run so fast until we saw a snake on a walk last year.
And yes, you may say that these are just your average run-of-the-mill garter snake and they’re actually beneficially to have around if you don’t want your yard to be overrun with mice and toads and mosquitoes and other various creepy-crawling creatures.
I don’t care.
I’d rather have a million mosquito bites on my butt than see a snake. Living. In my yard.
Or worse: Feta with a snake in her mouth. I’m pretty sure that I’d puke all over the place if that happened.
I can’t even think about it right now.
But I decided yesterday that I can not live my life in fear forever. I sent out Feta to scare away any yard-invaders and then followed behind with the mower. If Steve wasn’t going to take care of our growing reptile population, I was, one chopped up snake at a time.
After a few passes across the yard, I had yet to see anything except a ton of grasshoppers and a very large toad that retreated into the field behind our house.
And then there it was:
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a teeny, tiny bit, but there was a hole located quite close to our slowly-growing lilac bushes in the back corner of the yard that resembled the one thing I did not want to see:
The snake hole.
Once I returned to reality after a brief meltdown, I hurriedly cut that part of the yard and moved on to finish the rest of the yard without a sighting of an actual slithering, sneaky you-know-what.
Later that evening, while Steve was making salsa, I told him that I found the snake hole, so he doesn’t need to hide it from me anymore.
Rae: “Wait, you tell me where the snake hole is that you know about.”
Steve: “Up by the front corner of the house. Why?”
I imagine I looked something like this.