My life is full of toads. Thankfully, none of them are the men in my life. I literally mean toads. They mistakenly jump into my pool thinking they are going for a refreshing fish-filled dip in the pond in the backyard. Then to their horror they find they are trapped in a chlorine world from which they can not escape (the sides of the pool are too high for them to climb out).
Routinely, I close the curtains at night in the bay window of my bedroom. The lights in the pool are usually still on, so I can see the luminescent water rippling caused by the increasingly panicked breaststroke of a freaked out toad, sometimes teeny tinies, sometimes really warty Grandpas.
The house alarm is already on and I'm naked...a sigh ensues, the bathrobe goes on, I tromp downstairs, turn off the alarm, and don my lifeguard hat. The lifeguard hat consists of the pool skimmer. After scooping up the frog - which often panics more at the skimmer than the realization of perpetual treading and tired drowning - I go to the edge of the fence and unceremoniously dump the frog four feet to the wet grass below. By then, my compassion is running on low so I make no effort for a soft landing. I figure they should be grateful that they have been saved and can deal with a small bump if they happen to land on their noggin.
If I'm home alone, the frog gets no mercy at night. I don't even venture to look out the window down to the lit pool. The curtains remain closed all day, as I don't want anyone peeking in during the day and guessing that I am home alone. I do check the pool in the morning and the lucky ones are still swimming the perimeter, albeit sluggishly, like if I hit the snooze one more time, they'd be toad-toast.
I do kind of share Dad's distaste for frogs. When they were dating in the early '60s, Mom put one down the front of his swimming trunks while they were canoeing on an English lake. I have no such story. They just creep me out. They come into my garage at night to take a dump (maybe ceremoniously this time). This pisses me off to no end as we are trying to convert the space to a boxing gym/pilates studio, not a toad toilet. How can I keep them out? Is there a toad turd repellent out there somewhere on a Costo shelf? Did you know that the French word for toad is crapaud? Uh huh. Pronounced crap-o.
So, yeah. I have a love/hate relationship with them. An I'll save you but I want to get rid of all of you turdy monsters kind of thing. I know this for sure though...you'll never find me kissing a frog. I already have my Prince.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Monday, June 05, 2006
So... I invited my mom to read my blog so I could make her laugh and cheer her up. She was horrified at how filthy my writing was. I've been chastised, so I'll try to clean it up from here on in. I feel like I'm eleven again, when I wasn't even allowed to say "God." Little did she know that was the same era that I was smoking the reeds from the lake with my older brother.
artist David de Lara's Crooked Halo
artist David de Lara's Crooked Halo
Friday, June 02, 2006
Welcome to my world. Florida...it's basically Fiji or Alaska. You're "cool" with the AC in your house (this, ps, is the only place in this godforesaken state where you have any control of how cold your ta-tas are), then you sweat your balls off in the car, until the air kicks in and then you're freezing because the vent in the car, no matter where you point it, manages to tunnel right into your ear. Then you park and trudge to the mall/office/restaurant, again sweating your nards to melting point (black asphalt in FL is the devil...this is why we have valet parking everywhere), only to find that your neck-grease has frozen to Slurpee consistency. *sigh* But hell, it doesn't snow here like it did in Winnipeg, so I'm all good with that.