Things that are great about an 8-hour plane trip with KLM:
1. It ends with me being in the Netherlands
2. The stewardesses on KLM are Dutch, so they have these soothing accents and they tend to be quite tall, so you kind of size them up and think yeah, she could take a terrorist down.
3. The food is not half bad.
4. You can catch up on your reading
Now, things that are not so great:
1. I was in literally the last row of the plane
2. I was in economy and the seats were so small I basically had to give the person next to me a lap dance just to use the bathroom.
3. My seatmate.
Let me explain about this guy. He was a huge Nigerian man who just sort of spilled over into my seat. And for 8 hours, we were basically best buddies. He slept leaning on my shoulder. He snored. His breath smelled in the morning. He drank five beers before he had to use the restroom (bladder of steel, he had). He itched his junk in his sleep. He did strange exercises to keep his circulation flowing, knocking me with his elbows in the process.
Miserable.
Also, when we were sitting in the terminal waiting for the flight, I was - I'll admit - looking for Most Likely To Blow Up A Plane Person. I had identified the only person who didn't look incredible happy and decided it was definitely him. He was frowning and clenching his fists and rocking back and forth a little, wearing black and a scary scowl. But then, he stood up and went to the bathroom. And he was wearing tight, sparkly gold wash jeans. Terrorists do not, I assure you, bedazzle their jeans.
But otherwise, the flight went smoothly, although I didn't sleep a wink and it's now 7:00 pm Dutch time. I haven't slept in upwards of thirty hours. I got settled into my apartment at around 10:30 and hit the streets looking for a coffee shop and exploring, but most importantly, desperately seeking coffee.
When I lived in the Netherlands, I was too young to know what a "brown cafe" was, or to drink coffee. Let's just say I went into three coffee shops, all of which were on main streets and looked very upscale and classy (seriously, they didn't even having leaves painted on their doors, and all of the names included the word "coffee" and not the words "weed" or "herb"), before I gave up looking for caffeine, discouraged by the heady wafts of marijuana smoke in each establishment.
I went instead to a grocer and bought tea and am trying to stay ah- ah- awa....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Why my government professor is awesome.
I’m sorry it’s been so long. It’s been difficult for me to be funny lately, for several reasons. Between a dear friends cancer diagnosis, five finals , two music juries, one composition project, four research papers, and sickness… it’s been a tough couple of weeks. The worst part is my habit of trying to keep a happy face on and trying to keep up my energy. I know everyone is stressed this time of year, and doesn’t need to hear about my problems, and I know my friend needs my strength and optimism right now, not to be burdened with my anxiety and sadness. Plus, my phone was stolen, so I don’t have the option of calling a friend or my parents just to vent when I feel like I’m going to lose it. I’ve been keeping it together pretty well, but yesterday, everything came to a head.
I had to go to a professor’s house to turn in my final research paper for her class. She had invited us all over (there are only about fifteen students) to have dinner and turn in our assignments. My ride and I missed each other at our meeting spot, so, panicking when it hit 4:05, five minutes after the assignment was due, I jumped in a cab. My phone was stolen, so I had no way of communicating with anyone. I knew the professors street, so I asked the cabby to drive me in the right direction.
When we got there, I confessed that I didn’t know her house number or what the house looked like, and he advised me to get out of the cab so that he could go back to campus and ferry people to and from the airport. I did, and suddenly, I found myself stranded on a street about five miles from campus, with no phone, and no idea which house I had to get in. I ran up and down the entire street in the heat for about twenty minutes, getting increasingly more panicked, the stress from the last few weeks compounding with my fear of not getting my paper turned in on time and missing work that night – and not being able to call my boss to explain, worse.
I finally chose a house that had a lot of cars out front and knocked. Nothing. Disheartened, I slowly walked away from the house, officially giving up.
The door swung open behind me, and I heard my professor’s voice. I swear, in that moment, it was like the voice of an angel. I turned around, and, seeing a familiar face wearing a sympathetic expression, I burst into tears. I must have looked like a refugee or victim of some heinous crime, hot, sweaty, crying, clutching my essay and standing in the middle of the road, because my professor shut her front door, walked out onto the porch, and sat down on her front porch, patting the step beside her.
That’s how I ended up sitting on my professor’s front steps pouring my heart out to her – a fearsome federal judge, by the way, who normally scares the pants off me. The most intimidating woman I know rubbed my back and listened to me, hiccupping, explaining how I got to her house and why my paper was late. When I finished my story, she said, calmly, “Well, I certainly won’t penalize you. Just take a deep breath.”
I tried, and ended up coughing up a lung.
“Now, tell me what’s really wrong.”
“What?” I sniffed, wiping my cheeks.
“You’re a very capable and level-headed young lady; there must be something else you’re upset about to be in this awful state.”
To her credit, she sat and listened to me tell her about everything – and there’s a lot – which has gone wrong in the last two weeks, making sympathetic clucking noises and patting my hand occasionally. When I was done, she said, firmly, “Well, you’ve had a very rough time. I can see that. I think I know what you need. You need to come inside and have some dinner, and have a drink, take the afternoon off, and pretend you don’t have any responsibilities or worries.”
With that, she ushered me into her house and proceeded to serve me free food and pour me a glass of wine. When I protested, saying I had to go to work and that I was underage (she’s a federal judge, mind you), she said, in her most intimidating judge voice, “Sweetheart. I insist. You really, really need it."
You may be wondering where the awkwardness begins. Well, I did go to work after this. I had worn myself out with a combination of stress, tears and no sleep. I don’t think I’ve really slept more than five hours in two weeks, and never soundly. Result? I promptly fell asleep on the couch of the academic center where I work, and woke up to find my students and coworkers standing around me laughing because I was drooling all over the burnt orange throw pillows. Apparently I’d been sleeping hard for fifty minutes, mouth open, still as a corpse, during my walk-in tutoring hours. A supervisor told me on my way out of the office that he’d walked by, seen me, and hadn’t known whether to “laugh out loud or pity you, because you looked like a worn-out little lost puppy.”
Moral of the story. Don’t let yourself get so stressed out and tired that you have a breakdown in front of your professors. Also, don’t hate on your professors. They can be some of the coolest people in the world. And finally, close your mouth before you fall asleep in public.
On a bright ending note, classes are over. And compared to the hell this past week was in terms of due dates, finals are going to be a breeze. Plus, I am taking my professors advice again and taking today and tomorrow. Absolutely no studying. None.
Oh wait... I really should catch up on that music history. Never mind. Time to hit the books again!
I had to go to a professor’s house to turn in my final research paper for her class. She had invited us all over (there are only about fifteen students) to have dinner and turn in our assignments. My ride and I missed each other at our meeting spot, so, panicking when it hit 4:05, five minutes after the assignment was due, I jumped in a cab. My phone was stolen, so I had no way of communicating with anyone. I knew the professors street, so I asked the cabby to drive me in the right direction.
When we got there, I confessed that I didn’t know her house number or what the house looked like, and he advised me to get out of the cab so that he could go back to campus and ferry people to and from the airport. I did, and suddenly, I found myself stranded on a street about five miles from campus, with no phone, and no idea which house I had to get in. I ran up and down the entire street in the heat for about twenty minutes, getting increasingly more panicked, the stress from the last few weeks compounding with my fear of not getting my paper turned in on time and missing work that night – and not being able to call my boss to explain, worse.
I finally chose a house that had a lot of cars out front and knocked. Nothing. Disheartened, I slowly walked away from the house, officially giving up.
The door swung open behind me, and I heard my professor’s voice. I swear, in that moment, it was like the voice of an angel. I turned around, and, seeing a familiar face wearing a sympathetic expression, I burst into tears. I must have looked like a refugee or victim of some heinous crime, hot, sweaty, crying, clutching my essay and standing in the middle of the road, because my professor shut her front door, walked out onto the porch, and sat down on her front porch, patting the step beside her.
That’s how I ended up sitting on my professor’s front steps pouring my heart out to her – a fearsome federal judge, by the way, who normally scares the pants off me. The most intimidating woman I know rubbed my back and listened to me, hiccupping, explaining how I got to her house and why my paper was late. When I finished my story, she said, calmly, “Well, I certainly won’t penalize you. Just take a deep breath.”
I tried, and ended up coughing up a lung.
“Now, tell me what’s really wrong.”
“What?” I sniffed, wiping my cheeks.
“You’re a very capable and level-headed young lady; there must be something else you’re upset about to be in this awful state.”
To her credit, she sat and listened to me tell her about everything – and there’s a lot – which has gone wrong in the last two weeks, making sympathetic clucking noises and patting my hand occasionally. When I was done, she said, firmly, “Well, you’ve had a very rough time. I can see that. I think I know what you need. You need to come inside and have some dinner, and have a drink, take the afternoon off, and pretend you don’t have any responsibilities or worries.”
With that, she ushered me into her house and proceeded to serve me free food and pour me a glass of wine. When I protested, saying I had to go to work and that I was underage (she’s a federal judge, mind you), she said, in her most intimidating judge voice, “Sweetheart. I insist. You really, really need it."
You may be wondering where the awkwardness begins. Well, I did go to work after this. I had worn myself out with a combination of stress, tears and no sleep. I don’t think I’ve really slept more than five hours in two weeks, and never soundly. Result? I promptly fell asleep on the couch of the academic center where I work, and woke up to find my students and coworkers standing around me laughing because I was drooling all over the burnt orange throw pillows. Apparently I’d been sleeping hard for fifty minutes, mouth open, still as a corpse, during my walk-in tutoring hours. A supervisor told me on my way out of the office that he’d walked by, seen me, and hadn’t known whether to “laugh out loud or pity you, because you looked like a worn-out little lost puppy.”
Moral of the story. Don’t let yourself get so stressed out and tired that you have a breakdown in front of your professors. Also, don’t hate on your professors. They can be some of the coolest people in the world. And finally, close your mouth before you fall asleep in public.
On a bright ending note, classes are over. And compared to the hell this past week was in terms of due dates, finals are going to be a breeze. Plus, I am taking my professors advice again and taking today and tomorrow. Absolutely no studying. None.
Oh wait... I really should catch up on that music history. Never mind. Time to hit the books again!
Friday, April 22, 2011
In honor of Holy Week
Happy Good Friday! I know that seems like an oxymoron, considering that Christians use this day to remember Christ's death on the cross. But I am happy because it has been a wonderful day (and, on a serious note, I am happy because it's a day to remember how grateful I am to Him) . So, since this weekend is going to be all Jesus, all the time, I thought I'd kick it off with a blog post about one of the most awkward religious experiences of my life.
I was eating at the dining hall on this fall (I realize that there are multiple posts on the blog about the dining hall... it's true, the place just reeks of awkward) when I realized a guy sitting a little further along the table looking at me. I don't mean that whole "quick eye contact and then look away pretending it never happened" thing. I don't mean I caught him glancing over. I mean he was staring. When I made direct eye contact for the first time, he didn't even blush.
I assumed he was just zoning out in my direction, so I just resumed eating. When I looked over again, about two minutes later, he was still doing it. This time I lifted my eyebrows at him and tried to communicate through a somewhat ambiguous facial expression that he didn't need to be staring at me over his greasy pizza and french fries.
When it happened for the third time, I started to feel a little creeped out. It had been almost ten minutes, and I could see him out of the corner of my eye, just watching me eat. Wanting to get a good look in case I had to describe my attacker to the police later (kidding) I surruptiously tried to glance over him.
That was when I realized he was wearing a cross, a T-shirt from a Christian summer camp, and had a Bible sitting by his plate. I relaxed a little. Sure, he was big creepin', but was he likely to assault me? Probably not.
I went to go get ice cream, and when I got back, he sidled along the table so he was closer to me. Did he start with a "Hi" or a "My name is..." or even, "Sorry for staring, but you have something on your face?"
No.
"God wants me to know you."
I blinked for a second, wondering how to answer that. He saw my suprise and asked, "Are you a believer?"
"Yes..."
"Okay, then you understand!"
Not exactly. If God wants you to talk to me, talk to me. But don't precursor it with creeping. This is one of those examples of someone with very good intentions... and very poor execution. I believe there was something in the Ten Commandments about "Thou Shalt Not Rudely Stare At People Thou Dost Not Know".
Wait, there wasn't? Well, there should be.
Happy (early) Easter!
Oh! Easter reminds me of bunnies, too! Have you ever heard of The Book of Bunny Suicides by Andy Riley? It's wonderful in the most sadistic way possible.
I was eating at the dining hall on this fall (I realize that there are multiple posts on the blog about the dining hall... it's true, the place just reeks of awkward) when I realized a guy sitting a little further along the table looking at me. I don't mean that whole "quick eye contact and then look away pretending it never happened" thing. I don't mean I caught him glancing over. I mean he was staring. When I made direct eye contact for the first time, he didn't even blush.
I assumed he was just zoning out in my direction, so I just resumed eating. When I looked over again, about two minutes later, he was still doing it. This time I lifted my eyebrows at him and tried to communicate through a somewhat ambiguous facial expression that he didn't need to be staring at me over his greasy pizza and french fries.
When it happened for the third time, I started to feel a little creeped out. It had been almost ten minutes, and I could see him out of the corner of my eye, just watching me eat. Wanting to get a good look in case I had to describe my attacker to the police later (kidding) I surruptiously tried to glance over him.
That was when I realized he was wearing a cross, a T-shirt from a Christian summer camp, and had a Bible sitting by his plate. I relaxed a little. Sure, he was big creepin', but was he likely to assault me? Probably not.
I went to go get ice cream, and when I got back, he sidled along the table so he was closer to me. Did he start with a "Hi" or a "My name is..." or even, "Sorry for staring, but you have something on your face?"
No.
"God wants me to know you."
I blinked for a second, wondering how to answer that. He saw my suprise and asked, "Are you a believer?"
"Yes..."
"Okay, then you understand!"
Not exactly. If God wants you to talk to me, talk to me. But don't precursor it with creeping. This is one of those examples of someone with very good intentions... and very poor execution. I believe there was something in the Ten Commandments about "Thou Shalt Not Rudely Stare At People Thou Dost Not Know".
Wait, there wasn't? Well, there should be.
Happy (early) Easter!
Oh! Easter reminds me of bunnies, too! Have you ever heard of The Book of Bunny Suicides by Andy Riley? It's wonderful in the most sadistic way possible.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
My mother's good opinion of me is shot.
My mom and sister came to town this weekend, which meant I completely neglected my schoolwork and ate a lot... good thing I also walked a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot.
On Saturday, we had a couple hours before dinnertime, so I suggested that we go for a walk and a dip in Barton Creek. This is what I had in mind:
Naturally, this didn't go according to plan. First of all, we parked at a different trail head (easier to find) and I figured, hey, I got this. I can navigate a trail, suckers. I've been hiking since I was a munchkin. And, believe it or not, I actually have a decent sense of direction.
Our hike began with a descent 300 feet straight down into the creekbed, complete with the sun beating down. I love a good incline and I love to hike, so I wasn't worried. My mother and sister are in good shape, so it wasn't the physical stress of the hike that pissed them off.... it was the fact that I casually said it would be about a half mile to the creek and that... well it wasn't a half mile.
Once we got to the creek bed, I started moving upstream, remembering that we had hiked upstream for about ten minutes once we got to the bottom last the time I had come here. Problem was, this trail head was farther upstream than the swimming hole I had in mind. Long story short, we hiked for about an hour and a half down a roughly marked trail, clambering over rocks and stumps, my mother growling at me every ten minutes that "it had better be soon" and me frantically insisting that it had to be just around the corner and I didn't remember it taking so long.
At about five o'clock we admitted defeat and trekked back downstream. When we ran across a swimming hole - not the lovely, clean, clear, secluded one I know - I suggested a swim, to cool off.
So this hole was frequented by a bunch of frat and sorority kids drinking copious amounts of beer and smoking lots and lots of pot. My mother, to her credit, gracefully perched on a rock and didn't lecture me, but my little sisters eyes were like saucers. I squirmed as I floated around in the water - which even smelled like beer, gross - feeling like I had dragged my family to a frat party and my good reputation with them through the mud.
We made a quick escape, and there was an awkward silence as we headed back towards the ascent. I'm sure my mother was calculating the cost of sending me to college to - apparently - learn how to drink, throw a football while standing knee deep in water and smoke grass. I could see her running through the names she's heard me bring up and decide who sounded like a pothead. I imagined how she was going to end every phone call from now on: "Be careful, don't smoke too much pot. And don't drink so much beer that you get a beer belly. Oh and don't drink and drive. And limit yourself to wearing one fluorescent color at a time, for the love of all that is holy."
It was like she had seen me in a quintessential party school habitat. Which, to be honest, is so not my crowd. My idea of a super-exciting Friday night is to sleep more than five hours.
Weakly, I tried to say, "That's really not a typical crowd at this creek..."
"No, Bethie, I feel like that's a very typical crowd."
We surveyed the steep incline and I said, with false - and at this point, lackluster - bravado, "It's not too bad, maybe a twenty minute climb."
My mother turned to my sister and said, scathingly, "Don't listen to her, Sarah. She lies."
PS: My Mama really loves me. And she doesn't actually think I'm a crazy party animal... I think.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Sandwhich Man Strikes Again
Okay, so remember Sandwhich Man? At subway? You can read about him here.
Well. I ran into him again yesterday. It was only the second time I've gone to Subway, and it's been two months, so I assumed he'd found someone new to stalk. Nope. What was the first thing he said when I walked up?
"Oh! You cut your hair."
Weird. Weird, weird weird.
In other news, I got stranded at a bus stop this weekend in Houston. It's a long story involving the wrong address being posted on a website, iPhones, and the poor navigation skills of the person who was supposed to be picking me up. (Just kidding. I ruv roo! Thank you for coming to get me... eventually : ] )
So, I was sitting in a park and ride about forty five minutes from home for about thirty minutes. It started to get dark and there was this super-creepy old man in a white van parked near me and no one else around, so I left and walked down the road to a gas station, where I started to make friends with the two Albanian dudes who ran the register. I'm glad I did, because my phone started to die and I would have needed to use theirs to call some kind of help if my ride hadn't shown up. But anyways. They were really, really nice. They told me about their kids. They asked about my major. They even let me illegally loiter for about an hour in front of their store.
Who was not so nice? The people filtering through filling up their cars and going into the station. I guess it did look a little weird - I was the only Caucasian person there, I was wearing a pretty expensive hiking backpack, and holding a smart phone... and yet I was the one who was stranded at a gas station at 9:00 pm on a Friday night.Karma's a you-know-what.
Final awkward thought of the night. Somehow, after this weekend, I have 34 one dollar bills in my wallet. Excuse me, what? No, I didn't do anything morally reprehensible to earn the twenty three one dollar bills I just used to buy groceries. Stop giving me that dirty look.
Well. I ran into him again yesterday. It was only the second time I've gone to Subway, and it's been two months, so I assumed he'd found someone new to stalk. Nope. What was the first thing he said when I walked up?
"Oh! You cut your hair."
Weird. Weird, weird weird.
In other news, I got stranded at a bus stop this weekend in Houston. It's a long story involving the wrong address being posted on a website, iPhones, and the poor navigation skills of the person who was supposed to be picking me up. (Just kidding. I ruv roo! Thank you for coming to get me... eventually : ] )
So, I was sitting in a park and ride about forty five minutes from home for about thirty minutes. It started to get dark and there was this super-creepy old man in a white van parked near me and no one else around, so I left and walked down the road to a gas station, where I started to make friends with the two Albanian dudes who ran the register. I'm glad I did, because my phone started to die and I would have needed to use theirs to call some kind of help if my ride hadn't shown up. But anyways. They were really, really nice. They told me about their kids. They asked about my major. They even let me illegally loiter for about an hour in front of their store.
Who was not so nice? The people filtering through filling up their cars and going into the station. I guess it did look a little weird - I was the only Caucasian person there, I was wearing a pretty expensive hiking backpack, and holding a smart phone... and yet I was the one who was stranded at a gas station at 9:00 pm on a Friday night.Karma's a you-know-what.
Final awkward thought of the night. Somehow, after this weekend, I have 34 one dollar bills in my wallet. Excuse me, what? No, I didn't do anything morally reprehensible to earn the twenty three one dollar bills I just used to buy groceries. Stop giving me that dirty look.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The only serious blog post I'll ever write
I am a super awkward hugger. Here’s a list of awkward hugs:
1) When you do the awkward back pat. I feel like I’m your coach or something…like, “way to go, kid, I’m proud of you, but I don’t exactly want to rub your back… that’s too intimate. I’ll pat instead.”
2) When I bang my chin on your collarbone. This mostly happens if you’re taller than I am and I instinctively turn my torso away from yours and lock my elbows to avoid full-body contact. And it actually hurts.
3) The face collision. No, I wasn’t trying to kiss your lips, mouth, chin, cheek or ear.
4) Once, I tried to deflect a hug when he was already holding out his arms. I put out one hand and turned it into a weird high-five thing, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process.
5) When you’re with a friend, and you run into their friend. They hug the friend and then feel like they can’t leave you out… but you don’t know them.
6) The Sneak Attack Hug. Didn’t see that one coming…
7) When we both reach up and try to put our arms around each other’s necks. Somebody’s got to go with the waist, amigo. However, if we’re not really close, your hands shouldn’t be anywhere beneath my waist. And don’t try to tell me that you don’t know what I mean by “waist”… it’s not at the hem of my jeans.
8) When a handshake becomes a hug. I’m not a dude.
9) You’re not letting go. This hug just keeps going on and on. When my arms are no longer around you… maybe that’s a cue that you should think about stopping the love-fest.
10) The “What is in your pocket…oh…” hug. I don’t think I need to explain this one. It’s just awkward on so many levels.
But this is NOT a public service announcement asking people to stop hugging me. In fact, it’s the opposite. To everyone who does it even though it’s awkward and I probably make them feel as rejected as a mealy watermelon, thank you. I’m grateful not because you give me fodder for my awkward blog, but because I know it’s important to step out of my comfort zone and do things that scare me.
So that’s the embarrassing revelation of the day, friends. I am kind of afraid to hug people. I’m not a leper or anything. No weird phobias or psychological problems (some people would tell you this is debatable). In fact, I was a really cuddly child. I was the one who just wanted to curl up on someone’s lap and snuggle. In fact, I still love snuggling. I love holding hands and dancing close and taking naps with someone you like a lot. I would go on, but my entire extended family reads this blog. You get the picture.
Almost two years ago, this fear of hugging thing started. It’s difficult to explain without sounding like a complete nutcase, so I won’t even try. I don’t even understand it, because I know it’s irrational. People are basically good and have good intentions, but I have trouble trusting in that.
Every time someone forces me to be uncomfortable, to be awkward, to be nervous, to be ungainly… I am grateful. I need the practice (and sometimes, I get on a roll and hug, like, ten people in one night. I did that at an event this fall and I’m pretty sure everyone thought I was drunk).
I was proofreading a psychology paper at my job the other day, and the student explained that in order to break a fear of, say, golden retrievers, the therapist would lock the phobic patient in a room with golden retrievers. I’m not suggesting that you hug me and never let me go. Just keep hugging me. I promise, it’ll be awkward. It’ll be a little scary for me, especially if you’re someone who, in the past, I’ve managed to avoid like the plague. But every time, it gets easier =)
Sorry this was so serious. Does this picture make it better?
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Snakes on a Van... no, really.
You know that movie Snakes on a Plane? Basically, that’s my family’s life.This morning while I was skyping with my parents, they told me this story. Yesterday, they were pulling into the driveway of our house in the family mini-van, that American classic, and as they pressed the garage door opener, they realized there was a four foot black snack curled up in front of the door.
My mother first tried to close the door again, but before she could, the snake slithered into the garage. They got out of the car and started to panic. Our house, you see, is being painted because it’s on the market. The door from the garage to the house was open to let the fumes air out. And the snake was headed for the house we’re showing on a daily basis. Can you imagine a realtor walking buyers through the house and trying to downplay the possibility of a huge snake lurking under the furniture, waiting to pop out at any moment? “You know, it’s really a great space… ignore that hissing sound…”
So my father tried his hand at snake herding instead of just killing the thing. I don’t know why he didn’t just grab a hoe or a saw or a shovel or something, since we have plenty of dangerous stuff lying around our garage. The funny this about this strategy, and my father’s normal approach to animals, is that my dad is a fairly intimidating looking man who stands six and a half feet tall, has a deep voice, and scares the living daylights out of most guys who have been to my house. Unbeknownst to my poor friends, he’s also the type to have basically made a pet out of the demonic and oversized squirrel that eats our porch. He named it Herman (it’s a female squirrel, I think, by the way). He protects it from our pellet-gun shooting neighbor and talks to it through the window panes. Total softie.
My mother first tried to close the door again, but before she could, the snake slithered into the garage. They got out of the car and started to panic. Our house, you see, is being painted because it’s on the market. The door from the garage to the house was open to let the fumes air out. And the snake was headed for the house we’re showing on a daily basis. Can you imagine a realtor walking buyers through the house and trying to downplay the possibility of a huge snake lurking under the furniture, waiting to pop out at any moment? “You know, it’s really a great space… ignore that hissing sound…”
So my father tried his hand at snake herding instead of just killing the thing. I don’t know why he didn’t just grab a hoe or a saw or a shovel or something, since we have plenty of dangerous stuff lying around our garage. The funny this about this strategy, and my father’s normal approach to animals, is that my dad is a fairly intimidating looking man who stands six and a half feet tall, has a deep voice, and scares the living daylights out of most guys who have been to my house. Unbeknownst to my poor friends, he’s also the type to have basically made a pet out of the demonic and oversized squirrel that eats our porch. He named it Herman (it’s a female squirrel, I think, by the way). He protects it from our pellet-gun shooting neighbor and talks to it through the window panes. Total softie.
Samuel L. Jackson (hero of Snakes on a Plane)
My dad (hero of Snakes on a Van, with his lovely sidekick, my mother)
Predictably, the herding idea didn’t go over so well. The snake did indeed turn away from our house. Where did it go instead? Up the tire of the van and into the underbelly of the vehicle. There is now a snake inside my parent’s car. They drove around for about an hour and speed over speed-bumps trying to dislodge it, but no such luck.
Now, I wasn’t there, but I can pretty much imagine how this scene went. There was a lot of:
My mother: “VERN! VERN IT’S GOING INTO THE HOUSE! MY CLEAN, PAINTED HOUSE!”
My father: “Oh no, little snakey-wakey, don’t go that way!”
My father: “Oh no, little snakey-wakey, don’t go that way!”
My mother: “IT’S GOING INTO THE CAR!”
Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit, but I think it was along those lines. There was a lot of shrieking and squealing (that is, if my little sister was also there). There was a lot of panicking. But most importantly, there was a lot of laughing. If there’s one thing my family is truly talented at, it’s laughing in the face of inconvenience, discomfort, embarrassment, awkwardness, invasions by potentially venomous critters, and at ourselves. I think my ability to laugh at my own ridiculousness must run in the family. We collectively have a somewhat twisted sense of humor, but there’s never a dull moment. I admire my parents for many reasons, but most of all for their humor, no matter what situation they find themselves in.
Now the question that remains is if this renegade viper can get from the undercarriage of the car to my feet next time I drive it. Oh, and if it is in fact venomous. Yikes.
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