A few days ago a friend of ours revealed that his parents sometimes read Wu Tang is for the Children. I was mortified, not because anything I write here is sacred or private (except to my family, who do not know this blog exists and who, if there is a God, never will), but because of all the naughty words that work their way up through my fingertips and onto the screen. Yeah, I like to curse. A lot. This is a fairly new habit of mine. When Nate and I got married, almost 4 years ago, I almost never let fly a 'hell' or a 'shit.' Now I have embraced a lexicon full of 'motherfucker,' 'jesus fucking christ,' and, a new favorite borrowed from this great show, 'bollocking shitballs.' I bandy about these choice words strictly in the company of Nate and other consenting adults. Never in front of kids or strangers. And I guess that's why I was so horrified to learn that these parents of a friend were reading my potty-mouth blog. I don't know them, yet I respect them immensely for raising a helluva kid. So, after this news, I vowed to curtail my swearing on this here blog.
And I will. Really, I will. Right after I tell you this story.
So tonight Nate and I are sitting on the couch watching our downloaded, commercial-free version of last night's Veronica Mars episode. Just as Veronica is about to spout some witty quip, Nate says, rather nonchalantly, "There's a bird in our house."
Then, with more appropriate emphasis, "THERE'S A FUCKING BIRD IN OUR HOUSE."
We sit there for a few seconds watching this thing fly around our living and dining rooms. It suddenly hits me, it's not a bird. "IT'S A BAT!!!" The situation instantly becomes three times as tense, wild, alarming.
We instinctively move away from the bat and end up huddled in the hallway, cowering under a jacket. We peek out every so often to catch sight of this domestic terrorist and yell, "Oh shit!" "Oh my God! Why is there a fucking BAT in our house?!" "Ahhh! How did it get in here?! Ahhh! Fucking hell!" "What should we do?!"
After a few minutes of freaking out completely, we rally ourselves to our feet. Nate opens the front door and tells me to shut the door that leads upstairs. I think, 'good idea... protect the children.' Then I grab my phone, throw on the jacket we were hiding under moments ago, and go out onto the porch. As I dial my sister's number, I am hopping, trying to keep on my toes in case I have to duck as the thing comes careening out of the door. I call my sister because she has had bats in her basement before. There is a famous family story in which she shoots a bat with a bb gun and the blood splatters, ketchup-like, all over the ceiling. Eww. Anyway, I ask my sister what to do. She suggests a net. We don't have a net. But, wait, maybe it's all over. I can see Nate through the window. He's in the kitchen, bashing the floor with a broom. Repeatedly, and with moxie!
He comes out to say that the bat is dead. I feel terrible all of a sudden. We killed this little creature, and why? It was so small, and probably harmless. Why were we so scared? Plus, it's illegal to kill a bat. And I'm no lawbreaker. Now, Nate, on the other hand..... he was the one wielding the broom, if you'll recall.
Thankfully, Simon was in bed. To witness his parents cowering in fear from one of God's smallest creations would have surely traumatized him for life. Either that, or he would've lost all respect for us.
Hours later, my stomach is still in knots. It was freaky, that's all there is to it. God, I hope we never see another one.
What about you guys? Any bat-encounter stories?