My Excuse Doesn't Have Any Legs To Stand On

I had planned on a nice blog post today, carefully typed out between finishing loads of laundry and mopping floors. Guess how many of those things happened today? One, if you count pulling clothes out of the dryer, putting a new load in the dryer, and putting more clothes in the washer. (It's just occurred to me that I left the basket of clean clothes in the garage, sitting next to the dryer. So technically I didn't even do that one job all the way through...)

I really, really did plan on today being a nice, productive Monday. But... things kinda got in the way. It all started when I was gathering up dirty clothes from our closet and I saw what I thought was a shoelace, or the drawstring to a pair of my Hubby's gym shorts. But actually, it was this:

Not a shoelace. Or the drawstring to a pair of gym shorts.

So, I had to come up with a snake-removal method. Step one was to call my Hubby. I'm not sure where I thought this would get me, as 1.) he was at work, and busy, and 2.) he's terrified of snakes. **Digression: I am a bug-o-phobe. To the point where I can't just smush a spider because, Dear God, what if it jumps on me before I can land the shoe on it?! Also, I can't smush beetles because, Oh Dear God, the sound! The icky, crunchy, sick, unholy bug-smushing sound! So when it comes to the occasional spider or cockroach, I always get my Hubby-- my knight in shining, bug-smushing armor-- to take care of them for me. My Hubby, on the other hand, is terrified of snakes. To the point where it's not even funny to throw a rubber one toward him because, good grief, are you trying to give him a heart attack? Basically, he feels about snakes the way I feel about bugs. And I feel about snakes the way he feels about bugs (they're a nuisance, but not terrifying). I often assure him that, since he's such an awesome bug-get-rid-of-er, if a snake ever gets in the house, I totally have his back. Of course, it never occurred to me that I would actually have to do that. Also, I totally forgot about it until after I got off the phone with him. End Digression**

So I was on my own. I had to remove the snake with only my own wits, a pair of kitchen tongs, and a pitcher.

I'm pretty sure this is how the professionals do it.

Luckily, Little Mister Snake Baby was either very tired, very weak, or just couldn't be bothered to care, and I was able to scoop him right up with my tongs and dump him into the pitcher. After that, it was just short walk out of the closet, up the hallway, through the livingroom, out the back door, and across the yard to dump Little Mister Snake Baby over the fence and into the cornfield where, presumably, he'd be a much happier Snake Baby.

And after an adventure like that, I just couldn't bring myself down to complete such mundane tasks as housekeeping. (The new Netflix dvd that came in the mail shortly after that may have played a part in my slackerhood, too. But let's just blame it all on the snake adventure-- that's way cooler!)