I'm sure you would agree that the title I choose for this blog is a bit on the strange side, given that this is not a cooking blog, a dieting blog, or a cereal-enthusiast's blog. Rarely do I eat a complete breakfast. I know, shame on me. I'm lucky if I can drag myself out of bed every morning in time to go to work or school, let alone eat a balanced meal before eleven o'clock. But, I digress. The reason I chose this title is two-pronged:
Reason One: I could not think of a better title.
Reason Two: I live in a bed and breakfast.
When you begin graduate school, you meet people. As you are learning about each other, one of the things you probably ask is, “So did you get an apartment here in town?” or something along that line. What you probably don’t expect to hear is, “Well, actually, I live in a bed and breakfast.” But I do. I have been here for about a month and a half. Even though I didn't expect it because I've visited this city at least once or twice a year since I was born, culture shock has proven to be a bit of a problem. I consider myself a Southerner, even though, I'm happy to say, I am, for the most part, accent-free. I do say y'all, though. Don't judge me. However, I have realized that even Southerners can be like strangers when you live eight hours away from each other. For instance, has anyone ever heard of a Fordhook? Another example: I was driving through a particularly urban area of town and saw a man on a horse in front of some stores. I'm not kidding. It was like, "Okay, so there's City Hall, the laundry mat, KFC, the service station, a man on a horse, the... wait. What??" It was quite a sight.
When I was originally thinking about documenting my time here, I thought to myself, “It’s gonna be boring. Nobody will read this, because you just live in an inn, not the White House or a castle or something cool like that.” And then the fact that I tend to attract situations that are usually found in those books about how to survive random, rare catastrophes such as getting caught in a riot in a foreign country or accidentally swallowing cellophane reminds me that this could turn out to be more interesting than I originally thought. By the way, those two random, rare catastrophes have happened to me. You see? I wasn’t kidding.
Since I've been living here, things that might belong in Ripley's archives have been occuring. For starters, let me tell you about the bunny rabbit that resides in my aunt and uncle's den. His name is Moses. I think Moses is out to get me. More specifically, my collection of sweatpants. This brings me to my first story.
Moses, the Vicious Bunny Rabbit and Other Animal Tales
I must start this tale with a little background information. When I am ever around animals, I tend to cause them to go haywire. I have stories upon stories to prove it. Monkeys, chipmunks, scorpions, fish, cows… I have been attacked, prowled, thrown off of, bitten by, and jumped on by almost every order of the Kingdom Animalia.
My aunt and uncle left me in charge of the house while they went out of town for two days. So, in typical grad student fashion, I donned sweats, grabbed a pint of ice cream, and crashed in the den to rot my brain with TV and movies. My aunt’s rabbit, Moses, usually minds his own business unless he hears you shake the bag of rabbit treats or the box of Strawberry Whoppers. Or bring in crutches, which I did (I was recovering from surgery). So, after downing my ice cream and finishing a movie, I proceeded to climb out of the La-Z-Boy, grab my crutches (which now had rabbit saliva all over them), and hobble toward the door, only to be stopped by the fact that I had a rabbit attached to the hem of my pants. So, I hopped faster, and so did he, still clinging to the elastic band by my feet. I couldn’t run. I could barely hop. And he is a much better hopper than I could ever aspire to be. So, I gently (heh) pushed him away and held him at bay with my crutch, and backed out the door. Now, every time I go in the den wearing sweatpants, I immediately have a rabbit attached to my ankle.
The same night, I was attacked by a different order. I hopped up the stairs, being careful to not hurt my leg by falling or tripping or anything graceful like that, only to come to one of the landings and have a baby gecko kamikaze jump from a shelf in the wall right in front of my feet. He stood there for a bit, stunned by the fall (I'm guessing that geckos have zero depth-perception...), and I used that time to scamper up the stairs before things took a turn for the worst. I made it to my room, flopped down on my bed, and noticed a spot on the ceiling. I looked closer. It was a large spot, about four inches. Then I realized, with fear and dread, that it was no spot. It was a spider. So, I called up my mother. "Okay, Mom. Pretend you are my height, have a seven foot ceiling, one good leg, and a four inch spider. What would you do?" With her advice, I put down the phone, fashioned a contraption out of a crutch and a tennis shoe, and took care of the problem, hopping and screaming the whole time.
This should be fun, right?
No comments:
Post a Comment