Living with Lizards

A woman must have an arsenal of weapons in her purse at all times.  Think Mary Poppins meets Jack Bauer.  And inside every woman there most usually lives a Girl Scout…ready for anything, creative and able to pound an entire box of Thin Mints.

Back in the day I was definitely an awkward Girl Scout (mental picture: chubby, green floral leggings, growing out my bangs)  – and THANK GOODNESS – because my arsenal of weapons was definitely lacking last Monday.  And creativity was all I had to go on….    

I’d just finished an early morning shift at work.  I walked over to my civic and opened the driver side door as usual, ready to enjoy my last few “me time” moments before reentering mommyhood for the day.

Only this time, I wasn’t alone. (Dun dun DUN)

There in the sill of the door was a lizard.  Three inches of pure creepy crawly unpredictability.

“Don’t you dare,” I thought while giving it the disapproving mommy stare down.  Note – while effective on husbands and children, lizards care very little about whether you approve of their behavior or not.  How do I know?  Oh yes, because homeboy (lizard) darted into my car.

Really?  Really???

Girl Scout or not, what the heck do I do with that?  Where were you on that warning Dateline?  I had my pepper spray for attackers and rapists, my self-defense moves for purse snatchers and my choice words for unruly teenagers – but a LIZARD?  No one prepares you for that.

Homeboy was there, in MY car.  But only one of us was going home.  And I was pretty sure that was gonna be me.

So I did what any woman would do.  I went to my comfort zone.  I went to my purse.  All I had was my wallet, my keys, my iPhone, some tampons and my pride.  Fail.

As such, I did what any resourceful (desperate) woman with inner Girl Scout chi would do.  I got creative.  Oh yes, and threw my pride out the window.

I took out a tampon from my purse and started furiously poking around the floor of my car.

Note – while effective on periods, lizards care very little about tampons poking at them.

So after poking for a good 2 minutes to no avail, I stepped back for a moment to take in the situation. (bing)

The lizard wasn’t coming out.  I had to get home.  There was no choice.

I tensed every muscle in my body and got in the car…vocally warning homeboy that if he dare show his face while I was driving – he’d have to incur the wrath of yet another tampon attack.

The five minute eternity that next ensued would have been hilarious to ANYONE lucky enough to see.  Add some scary movie music and you’d have had a thriller on your hands ladies and gentlemen!  I spastically turned my neck the ENTIRE ride home looking for any sign of homeboy.  My breaths were short and I’m not kidding when I say that EVERY muscle in my body was tense.  How do I know it was EVERY muscle?  Cause I didn’t pee my pants.  Or at least that’s what I’m telling people.

Home.  Whew!  

I jumped out of the car and proceeded to look back in disbelief.  A crying 10 month old?  I can handle that.  A husband furiously preparing for the bar?  Yup – no problem.  A lizard?  Apparently we’ve found my kryptonite.

Through his laughter, John listened to my retelling of the encounter with homeboy.  To which he responded by talking as if the lizard…..

“Really lady?  You’re poking me with a tampon?  Do I look like a vagina to you?” haha

Then he proceeded to go out to the car and shake out the mats and lie to me.

I know the lizard is still in there somewhere, John.

But if nothing else, I’ve learned something from homeboy: 

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.  But when life gives you lizards – you poke them with a tampon and spend the rest of your week in fear of their possible resurgence.  Then you get over it.

You see, sometimes you just have to live with the lizards.  Some problems don’t go away – and you can’t run from them.  So we pick ourselves up by our bootstraps, tense every muscle in our bodies so we don’t pee your pants, and get on with our lives.

Life is unpredictable.

That’s why I carry pepper spray.  And tampons.  And my new found courage.

You can call me Mary Bauer.