My life is ruined.
Ok, too much drama and hyperbole there. My afternoon of gardening is ruined.
Ok, maybe not ruined. But side-tracked. I was walking along the retaining wall showing Hector, our heavy-lifting-guy some things, and I’m poking around in the weeds trying to find the little lost hydrangea when suddenly he grabs me in a dramatic I’m-about-to-save-your-life-lady-so-don’t-get-hysterical-and-think-I’m-groping-you way.
My hand was a mere inch away from this three and a half foot snake.
That sneaky snake-in-the-grass. I wanted to hack it to death, after I stopped screaming.
Hector calmed me down and pointed out it’s a good snake to have around the house (impossible) and then, fairly sure I wasn’t going to faint, proceeded to chase the snake for more pictures so he could send them to his wife and make her scream.
Because we all know men have a 12-year-old version of themselves ready to play if the opportunity presents itself.