These days, there are few things that scare me to the core. I’ve learned to co-exist for a short time with the winter influx of mice that seek shelter in our home-until the sticky traps and D-Con claim their little, furry lives.
I smile knowingly at their twitchy, whiskered faces when I see one, knowing that if the cat doesn’t eat their gizzards, the traps and poision will soon make them wish they’d never sneaked indoors. Snakes no longer scare me either, unless they sneak up on me and startle me with their deadpan, glazed-over stare and swoosh noise as they slide through the grass trying to get away. Spiders aren’t scary, just really gross, and squashing them is a pleasure.
If you listen to the “experts,” in a lifetime most of us will swallow 10 or so spiders while we sleep. Ick.
There is one thing I can’t seem to get over lately, a fairly new scary thing for me and that’s zombies.
Laugh if you must, but lately, zombies are all the rage. They’re on television shows, movies and even appearing in photographs as they stalk unsuspecting victims who haven’t been infected by the secret virus our government is concocting to reduce the world population — if you believe such things, which my husband doesn’t. He scoffs at my pleas to join me in preparation for the inevitable Zombie Apocalypse.
I’ve always been a fan of scary movies, usually ones with plots very far removed from the real world.
It’s a fact that people are searching for a Sasquatch as we speak, but I’m less than concerned one will be discovered in Millersburg — unless they happen to photograph me before 8 a.m. on my way to the mailbox, which never happens.
I’m not worried about a vampire takeover because I love to cook with garlic. And werewolves, well, they’re not indigenous species in my area either.
Now zombies can be anywhere, just waiting to grab you, steal your brain and have you join their crew of staggering derelicts-much like the current crop of presidential hopefuls we’re reviewing.
I’ve graduated to quazi-zombie status because I’ve infected the desire to view my favorite show to my two children.
When 9 p.m. arrives on Sunday night, three of us, at our respective homes are tuned in waiting to see what happens next. Then we’ll talk about it all week long.
At 9 p.m. that same Sunday you’ll find my slightly annoyed husband retired to the bedroom, watching anything but zombies and leaving me alone and susceptible to surprise attack by the night walkers.
By 10 p.m. I’m thoroughly paranoid and certain a mob of angry zombies has invaded the mud room, waiting for me to open the door.
Of course this is the same time Charlie needs to go outside for the last time.
I let him out quickly, locking the door behind him and I stand guard, broom in hand. I hope Charlie can run fast if the walking dead suddenly materialize from behind the garage and around the back side of the barn because I’ll be grabbing the ammunition and mounting a sniper attack from the roof after I crawl out our upstairs window. It’s a well known fact that zombies aren’t good climbers. Sorry, Charlie.