She’s whispering, clearly upset, when she calls. “There’s a scorpion in the closet.” Her husband is out of town.
Socks and plastic kitchen gloves fill the handbag. The garden gloves are too dirt-encrusted to take into her lovely home. Not sure how much protection dish gloves wield against a scorpion sting, but they make me feel better. And thick, wooly socks because if that sucker goes across my foot, I may not live to tell the story.
It’s about to get all Lucy and Ethel up in here.
Writing all day in shorts and a tee (Egad!), sans makeup, I am a sight to be sure. All business upon arrival, I grab the broom, don socks and gloves, and pile my hair atop my head. A scorpion flailing about in the hair elicits an imagined hysteria too much to bear. Oh, and glasses. Eye protection. You never know. Scorpions are a wily bunch. I don’t own goggles. Sometimes a girl has to make do.
Entering GrandBear 2’s room, I am met with clothes everywhere, toys tossed willy-nilly. Scorpion-chasing has previously ensued.
Middle Chicken: “Mom, you need shoes.”
“I have my thick socks. He can’t get me.”
“No, here, put these on.” She presents pink plastic Birkenstocks. Once-once in my life with a Birkenstock. Don’t tell anyone.
Creeping into the closet where the beast was last seen, Middle Chicken hands me a poker–a metal skewer from the barbecue. Carefully, I lift item after item, waiting for the creature to scurry. Floor cleared, all that remains is a woven toy receptacle. Pulling it closer, I lift one item, a Cinderella glove, then another, a Spider-Man figure, and hand them out via the skewer when they get the all-clear.
Something moves. Or is that GrandBear’s golden necklace? Nope, there’s movement. Yes, definite movement. Are creatures running up and down my spine, my legs, my arms? Are there thousands of them?
“He’s in here,” I squeal, louder than intended. Middle Chicken jumps back, garbage bag at the ready. “Okay, we’re going to put this whole container in the bag and take it outside and kill it.” How very brave we are until we actually have to maneuver a child’s woven toy container still half-filled with baubles and wands and action figures of the Disney variety.
The scorpion has skittered out of sight. Swiftly, the container goes upside down into the garbage bag, and we sprint down the stairs, across the yard onto the driveway in plain view of her neighbors. Still clad in glasses, gloves, wooly socks, and hair piled high, both of us screaming, anyone looking out the windows must have had questions.
Middle Chicken dumps the bag. Where is he? “Ooh, under Skye.” Kick Skye, of Paw Patrol fame, across the driveway and, sure enough, he attempts escape.
“Not on my watch,” I call out, smashing him over and over again with the jabby end of the broom. And a few more times for good measure.
Sweep him into the gravel, gather the toys, all but Skye (a favorite), and back into the garbage bag they go. Keeping them would be too traumatic for everyone.
GrandBears are large-eyed when we reenter.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, taking out the trash. Guess what? Mémé cleaned your closet. Isn’t she the best?” Middle Chicken is such a great mom.
How was your Sunday afternoon?
So, I have protective goggles and a black light to hunt them with and smash them with a leather soled Bernardo Sandal, held in my hand…xxxx
We need all that protective gear!
Too funny!
Cracking UP!! Can totally picture you all together. Weapons in hand. Squealing. Loved this. Black light flashlights are a MUST for stocking stuffers this year! Scorpion hunting with them in the dark is such fun. In a sadistic, save the world, kind of way.
Oh Julie! We miss you so. And, yes, it was hysterical, as always.