So I was talking to the Superior Aunt, and after she had firmly told me what I would not be allowed to write about here (but it was pretty funny - sorry you're going to miss it), we got to talking about snails; you know, as you do. You see, we've been having this strange, probably global-warmingly-ominous weather thing happening here, it's called rain. It's not Seattle type rain mind you, but it does manage to fall from the sky and land on the ground which is not always something you can count on in this area.
There have been two noticeable results. One is that some of the stunted, down-trodden, depressed looking - well, I suppose plants is the closest term - have actually had the courage to throw out a leaf or two here and there, with the result that the normally cat-box tinted landscape has, now and then, a hint of green. This is very odd.
The other thing is the snails. They must have been dormant for years, just waiting for this bizarre set of circumstances; now they're everywhere.
Which is why we began discussing our methods of snail destruction, and I realized this was better than a quick trip to the psychoanalyst for a down and dirty look into your inner-most soul. Take the three women in our family for example.
One of us picks up the snails, moves them to a hard surface, apologizes profusely, and stamps them into crunchy wodges of snail boogers.
Another one picks up the snails and tosses them into the road, wincing when they land with a loud crack, feeling guilty for the relatively lengthy death, but being far too chicken to actually stomp on them and feel the crackle of the shell.
The last one does the road toss, but claims she enjoys the sight of the crippled, mucusy little vermin trying valiantly to slither back across the pavement to the relative paradise of her garden.
I won't tell you which of us is which.
But you won't find me apologizing to no gastropods any time soon.