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Page history last edited by Cleolinda 14 years, 7 months ago


1. Nickname-happy con man on Lost.


2. A loud, persistent pool frog in our back yard, possibly a minion of Pthoolhu, named for a tree frog that Sawyer (1) killed in the second (third?) season:


So one night--Tuesday, I think--Mom got it into her head to go huntin'. And I went out there with her, because I have a blog. Sadly, that is the actual reason I went. Anyhoo, she's out there with a ten-foot pole net and a flashlight, and I'm too busy antsing around and running away to be of much help. They're small frogs--one could probably fit inside a tennis ball--but I was terrified that they were going to jump on me and... frog all over me. It's not a phobia, exactly--more of an instinctive reaction beyond my control: if something jumps on me, in my clothes or in my hair, I lose my fool mind. This may have come from having previously lived in a sixty-year-old house where you could wake up with a roach up your sleeve. Also, there is an apocryphal story that a snake fell off the top of an open front door onto me when I was a toddler and my parents were working in the front yard. I'm just saying, anything wriggly gives me the screaming heebs. But, again: I have a blog; I couldn't not watch the fun.


I think my stepfather, despite not having a blog, had the same idea because he was leaning over the deck railing. My mother's creeping around the pool, in the dark, with a flashlight in one hand and a pole in the other. We immediately find a frog sitting on the pool ladder two feet in front of me, and I run away. She makes a grab for it, but has a little trouble maneuvering with both hands full. The frog jumps into the deep end, breaststrokes down a few feet and then--hilariously--sort of spreads out, goes limp, and glides down into the deeps. We saw the frogs "float" both up and down, and it looked really relaxing, to tell you the truth. Except for the part where they're frogs and they give me the heebs. Mom gives me the light and the search-and-destroy mission moves over to the shallow end of the pool, until I find a frog sitting on the pool steps and I run away. "Reminds me of Vietnam," says my stepfather up on the deck.


Mom starts to get kind of good at frog-huntin', actually. She's using the flat net, as opposed to the bag-shaped one, and has me shine the light in the frogs' eyes while she ferries them over, one at a time, to the back fence and flings them over into the trees. We hear them start croaking again ("RAAAWWWWK") almost immediately, so there's very little death involved, or if there is, they get over it pretty quickly. She catches five, total. But there is one, one frog that we cannot catch: Sawyer. Unlike the others, he is raaawwwking from the patio wall, and he manages to raaawwwk like a bullhorn right as Mom is about to catch one, thereby alerting her prey to the danger. Sneaky bastard. We never did locate him, although I'm pretty sure he's claimed the wrought-iron patio table for Sawyerland. So finally, about an hour later, we conceded defeat. "We have to make a pact to never speak of this night," says my stepfather. "Why?" asks my mother. "Because it's embarrassing."


Sawyer gives one last great big RAAAAAWWWWWWK as we leave, and out in the trees, you can hear a triumphant answering chorus of "RAAWWK, RAAWWK, RAAWK RAAWK RAAAAAWWWWWK." And if you are imagining a bunch of frogs headbanging and throwing devil horns with their little webbed toes out in the woods behind my house, I will not blame you.



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