Somewhere out there in the Cosmic Administration Office is the signup sheet for "Cute Animals You Would Like to Live in Your Backyard." And because, not unlike today, I was having an allergy-ridden swollen-eyelidded sneezefest when the memo came out, I failed to sign up for "precious bunnies" and "darling dragonflies."
I got what was left over, and it turns out that was "snakes." Yeah. Woo Hoo. Pardon me while I take a moment out to Not Celebrate.
DH and his group of buddies disposed of a dozen the day they poured the cement in the side yard last month. That's right, I said a DOZEN. This is approximately 13 too many snakes in my yard. I don't CARE that they love all the rock-gardeny goodness, nor the semi-arid climate-y attraction of slithering blithely along in the afternoon sun IN MY YARD.
Well, as I said, the guys disposed of them. With great glee, candidly. Snakes were flying up and over the back fence with alarming frequency that day (much to the chagrin of a pedestrian down on the path at one point). And as pouring the cement eliminated a lot of weeds (yeah, I know, expensive weed control, cement is, but hey, it's long-lasting!) we figured that was the end of THAT little party.
Unfortunately snakes' psyches are a bit too durable for my taste (let me assure you with haste and no wavering that when I say taste I am in no way referring to taste BUDS but rather to preferences of a general sort, as I have absolutely and unequivocably NO desire to investigate the old chestnut about snakes tasting like chicken). There have been several sightings since, including about 5 more fence-flinging frenzies this past weekend. And just this afternoon I was holding the new handrail for the new steps in place so David could fasten it down, and sure enough, another hardy reptilian soul was stretched out in the sun on one of the flower beds (dear reader, kindly use the term "flower" bed with Very Low Expectations in the accuracy area of your mind - perhaps "Plant Growing Area would be a more apt descriptor).
The sad thing is that out of respect for me and my girlie squeamishness, my husband didn't squish it with a post, so it hightailed it (I know, I know, work with me here) under the deck. Where it lurks. And waits.
Other than the fact that I can no longer go out into my backyard, recent life has been relatively uneventful. We took a nice drive in the hills yesterday, then came home and cooked hot dogs over the very suburban gas firepit, LOL. No end to our willingness to "rough it..."