To Kill A Copperhead

In honor of snake season starting up here in north Texas, I thought I'd share the southern way of getting your point across to snakes. Which happened at work last summer, and which I hope to never happen again.

Step 1: Find a poisonous snake on your front porch.

Which was our case. With the then-18-month-old twins dangerously nearby. It was a copperhead. No señor.

Step 2: Make your decision. Fight or flight.

Mom-of-the-Kids? Flight. I learned in that moment of her deep and abiding phobia of snakes. Add in the shock of finding a poisonous one inches from your hand, and suffice it to say, her face was a little green and her voice at a slightly higher octave than normal.

Myself? Never having had a poisonous snake on my porch before, I halfway expected to also be of the "flight" variety. I was shocked to find myself all Hulked up with righteous hell-to-the-naw vengeance against the creepy little thing.

Step 3: Choose your weapon, and go Marie Antoinette on its venomous ass.

Mine was an ax plucked from the woodpile in the backyard. When the thing saw I was serious, we played a short game of hide and seek amongst the porch's piles of lumber and grills. And in that moment, I suddenly found myself wildly obsessed with the desire to have had thick boots on. Instead of no shoes at all...

Then you chop. When he strikes at you, chop again.

Step 4: Dead does not mean safe.

Don't jack with the body right after its dead. It's jaws can still clamp. And you can still find yourself in the ER with an anti-venom shot in your wherever.

Step 5: Dispose.

Some choose to trash the remains. Us? We had Dad-of-the-Kids toss him over the back fence to the snake-infested creek beyond.

As a warning to the others.

Thankfully, that was our only venomous snake encounter last year. Whether it be because God knew our hearts couldn't take another sudden stop and He had already wiped the years of laughter from His eyes, or ya know, maybe our "warning" to the copperhead brethren was heeded after all.

Probably the former.

The Arm

Mondays don't really bother me. Wait, I lied. Monday ALARM CLOCKS irritate the snot out of me. But Mondays themselves? Not so bad.

Part of the reason is the greeting I always receive when I walk in the door at work. I can always count on Sis's excited squeal of "DEDYN!!!!!!! You came back home to meeeee!!!!!" as she comes barreling through the living room to hug me at the door.

How many people get that kind of greeting from their coworkers every Monday?

But today when I stepped over the threshold, no grinning little girl tackled me hello. Instead she was cuddled up with her momma on the living room recliner, sipping her requisite strawberry milk, clutching her pink blanket, and looking generally pitiful.

Mom-of-The-Kids informed me Sis had been playing a little rough with her dad and brothers the night before (well-- rough for HER, that little dainty thing... The most rough-housing she generally participates in is a piggy-back ride and playing Tickle Monster) and she had began mentioning that her arm was sore shortly after. It wasn't a dramatic thing, just a little girl retreating from bath time and further playing in favor of snuggling up with some cartoons and chill time.

This morning, however, was a different story. The normally-agile Sis laid in bed calling for her momma's help in sitting up and getting out of bed. And since that moment, Sis wouldn't move her arm at all and was very uncomfortable anytime the arm was jostled in any way. She preferred the arm to lay unmoving across her leg and wouldn't allow it to be touched in any capacity.

Poor thing.

We gave her some Tylenol and indulged her every whim for a few hours until she could see the doctor.

She didn't hate it.

Apparently it was something called Nursemaid's Elbow and is fairly common in toddlers... An exam and adjustment at the doctor, and an hour later she was playing like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Now, Mom-of-the-Kids? Seeing her baby hurting that way today, AND being present for the doctor's adjustment? SHE may need some heart medication.

Scratch that. She needs a margarita.

Discount Massage

I have only had two massages in my life. Which puts me in a good place, I think: that's two more than a lot of people, but considerably less than others.

However, 1 of those massages was just plain traumatizing... Which defeats the purpose of a massage altogether.

A little over a year ago, I went to Kentucky to spend a long weekend with one of my best friends, Carrie, who followed her passion for All Things Equestrian to the land of races and ginormous hats.

Someone (I don't remember who, either she or I) suggested we venture out to the nearby massage school for discount massages. I, being uneducated in such things, was reassured by Carrie that only the "senior" students--those soon to graduate-- can take clients and the cost is considerably less, since the masseuses (masseie? Massees?) are not yet fully certified. She went on to assure me that she had always gotten good quality results from such experiences before, and that it would be a fun and relaxing girl's activity for us.

Recap. Relaxing massage + cheap + good quality = I'm in!

After arriving at the massage school and filling out the required paperwork, we were introduced to our masseuses. My guy was in his late twenties, maybe. Smaller stature. Long black pony tail. Facial hair. Creepy small hands-- That he rubbed together nervously (a lot).

But I trusted Carrie.

We began the massage experience awkwardly enough, when I, fairly naked under the sheet, was asked what kind of massage I would like, and if I had any special requests.

Blink blink. "Um, I've never had a massage before so I guess let's just do the basic, no frills. And special requests? Like, I guess my back and shoulders?"

"Well, for instance, some of my clients request special attention to their pecs..." he suggested.

"No. No thanks. Just back and shoulders." I answered quickly, making a mental note to go Chuck-Norris-meets-Kung-Fu-Panda on his ass should he continue to think my pecs needed his special touch.

The massage began. He instructed me to let him know if the pressure was too much or too little, and he'd adjust accordingly. For example, he started out WAY too gentle. My skin felt petted, rather than my muscles massaged. I told him so, so he apologized, "adjusted", and continued.

Except it was the same petting. No change in pressure.

I tried again a few more times to get him to adjust, and he always agreed to, but never changed. Awkward. I caught myself wondering if this guy was legit... Or if perhaps the back door to the school had unknowingly been left unlocked and he had snuck in for a day of fun-filled creepiness.

Let's review: an uncomfortable looking, ponytailed man with nervous twitches, small hands, and an inclination for my pecs had me locked in a small dark room with him for an hour of oily petting.

And he didn't even buy me dinner first.

After the hour was mercifully up, and Carrie and I got back into her car, she stretched out her arms with a relaxed sigh and said "Gah, that was awesome! Didn't I tell you? How was yours?"

"Just dandy."

...And that, folks, is the story of why Carrie is billed for Devyn's therapy.

That's How it Goes...

Some days I'm up and running, fueled by natural energy, excitement on greeting a beautiful morning, and all that...

And then there are mornings like this--- don't get me wrong, I'm no less blessed today than other days, and today is no less beautiful. It's just that the most entrancing and captivating thought on my mind revolves around this---

Take a Picture With Me

Buddy was at school. The twins and I played all day. At one point, I thought it'd be fun to take a picture together!

Ha.

"Say CHEESE!!!"

..........Never mind.

The Art of Spinning

Buddy- "Look at me, Devyn!!! I'm a spinning tornado!!!!!! Watch out!!"

Brother- "Me too!!! Watch me too!!! I a 'pinning tomatoooo!!!!"

Where's the Compassion?

You only have to flip on the news lately to get an update on Lauren "Lo" Scruggs-- online magazine editor and model who was involved in an airplane propeller accident in early December. I've been following her story since the evening it happened, after receiving a prayer request about her the evening of the accident from our mutual friend, Jennefer. While most of the stories have been unbiased and informative, I've been appalled at how quickly reporters and commenters have become toxic. I've seen countless articles on where the blame of the accident should lie, whether her family is lying about her twin sister's sympathy pains for Lauren, speculation on Lauren's future, and on and on.

My question is this: when did Lo stop being a person in the eyes of the world media, and instead become a target?

Yes. She was in an accident. And by the grace of God she is going to be ok! Let's celebrate with her and her family!

Yes. Her life will have adjustments because of her injuries. Let's encourage her and pray for her! Don't dwell on the negative, no one needs that.

Yes. Her family is close-knit and they've been there every day encouraging her and helping her to heal. That's a priceless gift. Not one for the media to question and try to demean.

This is a real person. Not a news story. She's Mr and Mrs Scruggs' little girl, Brittany's sister, a friend, a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter, and (to me) a fellow classmate.

So directly to you, Lo, I wish you a quick recovery, pray for your pain, rejoice with you over your milestones and the love you're receiving through it all, and trusting God that His peace will guard your heart through everything.

Love and hope wins out over blame and doubt. Every time.