Thursday, September 20, 2012

Murder, She Wrote


I committed a murder last night. But before you give me the life sentence or worse, the death sentence (actually, the life sentence would be worse), let me justify it.
After having worked on homework for three loooong hours with my kids, I decided that we would finally relax, cuddle up in front of the TV, and watch the best movie ever made, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Just as we were sucked into a suspenseful scene in which Harry is backing up into the roots of a tree in the Forbidden Forest, and a dark figure is about to attack him, my husband, who was outside in the backyard, started screaming at the top of his lungs. At first, my kids and I ignored the cries because we are used to him trying to get attention in this way (my husband’s the boy who cried wolf). But when ten minutes had passed, the scenes in the movie had gone from gloomy to whimsical, and the cries in the back yard still had not ceased, we began to worry. We went to check on our boy-who-cried-wolf. There he was, in his boxers and a pair of slip-on Vans not on his feet but on his hands, poking at a giant SCORPION! With its tail curled up in a ready-to-sting position, this THING moved about our patio as if it were a battlefield. It dodged the water hose, the legs of the chairs, and every time it got poked in the head with the tip of a stinky Vans shoe, it seemed to get angry and move vigilantly forward to find its attacker.
“Kill it! Kill it!” my kids and I screamed. But no. Our boy-who-cried-wolf kept on irritating this creature until it finally decided that since it can’t stab the Vans-hands, it would just go after the bare feet (mine and the kids’) that were dancing around it with extreme caution. At that, Billy and Viki took cover in the kitchen and watched as I, their brave mother who always has to save the day because their dad dares not make a kill or even a decision to make a kill (I’m so glad we don’t live in the hunter/gatherers period—we’d probably starve), grabbed one Vans shoe off the boy-who-cried-wolf’s hand, and smashed the enemy as it approached. There was no time to think about strategies or consequences; the shoe had to come down. Literally. (see below)

As it landed on the hugest scorpion I’d ever seen in my life, something splattered all over my feet and legs. At that, my husband screamed (again)... [feel free to insert any type of scream here; the more feminine, the better]. He pointed at my legs and said, “Now you have scorpion poison all over you; you’re gonna die!” Some more screams—from inside the house this time. My kids began to panic and completely freak out and begged me not to die. It took some time to assure them that I WILL live, that their dad is just trying to scare them, and that he’s nuts. Well, I didn’t have to really convince them that he’s nuts; they already know that. After everything and everyone had finally calmed down, and we were back in the living room finishing up our movie, my husband said, “I can’t believe you killed that beautiful creature.” My kids and I stared at him in disbelief until Viki took care of the situation, “Dad, just because you’re a Scorpio and have a scorpion tattooed on your boob doesn’t mean that you’re related to it or even that it likes you!”

No comments:

Post a Comment