August 5, 2010
There are things about every place that take a while to get used to.
In North Carolina, it was vinegar-based barbecue.
In Philadelphia, it was the pervasive belief that each room in a house requires a different color of carpet.
In Florida, it's the reptiles.
I don't have anything against lizards, but I don't particularly like to find them in my shower stall or running across the sidewalk every time I step foot outside my house.
They are everywhere.
On Tuesday, I took my kids to the park and sat down on top of one. In my defense, the lizard was the same color as the park bench.
If the lizard wasn't sick when I sat down, it certainly was when I stood up. The thing was alive, but it didn't look so good.
For reasons which I don't understand, my kids were more concerned about the condition of the reptile than my mental health. The shriek could be heard for miles.
"My mom killed a lizard," Cortlen told the cashier at Taco Bell. The cashier looked impressed.
I sensed that I was on the verge of being offered a free bag of cinnamon twists in recognition of my achievement.
"She sat on it," he added. The cashier looked totally grossed out.
I had to buy my own cinnamon twists.
"Mom caught a lizard with her bum," Camber proudly told my husband when he came home from work.
My husband looked at me sideways. "By design or accident?" he asked.
The fact that he had to ask this question worries me.
Has it come to this?