I was born the polar opposite of my mother but with all of her good looks and intelligence. My mother is pretty much in a constant state of looking at me sideways and shaking her head. At least she has finally given up on trying to talk me out of whatever crazy idea popped into my head. That must have been exhausting! My only worry is she will end up with nerve damage from the repetitive motion. Kind of like carpel tunnel for parents of weird children.…with more eye twitching ….
Back when she still tried arguing common sense back into me, we got into a pretty intense debate over collecting a beaver. We were coming up on Beaver Creek (I have a huge rant about poorly named creeks. I’ve never seen lightening at Lightening Creek, a horse at Dead Horse Creek, or even any woman at Crazy Woman Creek. We will go more in depth another time) and there was a beaver! I fricken love beavers!!!!!! I want a pet one almost as much as I want a pet fox! This one happened to be dead. But it was still normal sized, no bloating, and the blood was still red. Guess we are making a Sporran. (this is the little purse thing Scotsmen hang in front of their junk when they wear a kilt) I guessed wrong. This woman who claims to love me refused to pull over to get the beaver! And she calls herself my mother *slow head shake* This was the first perfect beaver I had ever seen and she was just driving on past like it didn’t exist, like I’m not sitting next to her begging, like we don’t have trash bags in the van to put it in, like all of her arguments are logical. Blah, blah “we don’t have a safe place to pull over…you’re pregnant and on bedrest…both your ankles are broken…we are staying out of town for 3 days and it will stink…it might have fleas…do you really want to give your baby the plague…” blah, blah, her needs. I was left with no other option than to plant my broken feet on the dash, cross my arms, and huff like a toddler.
Now my In-law’s were meant for me. They laugh and say “oookkaaay” whenever I get to sell a crazy idea to them. Who else gets lucky enough to have a mother–in-law that buys you a skeleton to feel better after your brother dies?! She knows me so well J And my father-in-law feeds my crazy. My husband is a great balance of the 2. He shakes his head as he is laughing while (sometimes) helping me.
The first time I asked him to pull over so I could tail a roadkill fox, he thought I was joking. HA! NOPE! Joke’s on him, now pull this pretty truck over so I can get that little fluff butt before someone else does. He did argue for a few seconds that no one else would want any piece of roadkill, fresh or not, but he slowed down anyways. Somehow he managed to pull off while staring at me the entire time. I would like to think he was overwhelmed by his all-encompassing love for me and couldn’t pull his eyes away. The reality is probably closer to the fact I was opening a pocket knife near his leather seats and can’t be trusted with sharp objects. As soon as the truck was in park I dove out humming the mission impossible theme. I slinked up to the Ginger Poof like a cartoon villain, flipped it over and GOD DAMMIT!!! The f-ing tail was already gone! I grumbled all the way back and huffed in the seat. My not sympathetic husband giggled (yes giggled) and asked
“Did you lose your nerve to cut it?”
“No, someone else already got it”
“Nooo, you’re kidding me!”
“I may be dramatic but I don’t lie. The darn tail is already gone, somebody beat us to it”
‘I never thought that would be an issue. Not ever.”
“Drive on, Sir”
When I called to rant to my father-in-law. He was far more sympathetic. He even offered to stop and get me every tail he came across on his way to work. Living in the country and leaving right before dawn would give him the advantage to beat the other thieves. It did make me feel better to have someone that understood; unlike my husband and my mother.
A few weeks later I had already forgotten the entire conversation. What fox tail? We were talking about a fox tail? Of course we were talking about a fox tail! Now we are talking about my super awesome surprise from Big Jim…. A BAG OF FOX TAILS!!! We are talking plural here, more than one. He meant it and has been saving every one he has come across since that phone call. I am full out giggling and high stepping and jumping and clapping and SQUEE-ing!!! He tells me to go look in the lunch box on his work truck. I bolted out the door like a kid after the ice cream truck shouting “Someone Loves Me!” The red lunch box was easy to find …but very…..warm. Odd. Oh well. I bring the whole box inside to look at my new trophies. Opening that lid in the house was the second mistake to be made. The first mistake was collecting fox tails in the middle of summer in Wyoming and putting them in a lunchbox that sits out in the sun all day…for 3 weeks. (Maybe we are up to 6 mistakes now, I’m not sure, I could be mistaken) The whole bag is moving on its own. It looks like the tails are crawling. That’s because the maggots that have hatched are a similar shade of red/brown and they are trying pretty dang hard to get out of that gallon Ziploc baggy. Slowly I look up.
“How long have these been outside?”
“I got the first one 2 days after we talked about it”
“Sooo…. these tails have been baking in the sun for a few weeks?”
“You didn’t think to ice them?”
“Well, no. Why would I want those in my fridge?”
“Because there is muscle in the tail. So that means you left raw meat out in the sun”
“Well, that sucks”
*I vomit in my mouth a little bit*
He let out a hearty laugh. I let out an awkward-grossed-out-but-thanks-for-the-thoughtful-gift chuckle. Quickly, I took the writhing bag out to the deep freeze in the back shed. I spiked it in like it was a football in the end zone and slammed the lid shut. I will totally go back for them once I remember to bring a can of Raid, a gas masks, and some shoulder length gloves.
WHO DOESN’T KNOW TO REFRIDGERATE FOX TAILS???? REALLY?!
p.s. I really did love the gift. Thank you so very much!!
I think it’s been 2 years now. I should check if they are still there.