Here is the problem with having priorities: When a probably-rabid bat flies into your bedroom and holds you hostage until 1:20am, but you’re in the middle of several work deadlines? You don’t get to blog about it until 6pm the next day. And believe me, people, that’s torture. Pure torture.
Those who follow me on Twitter are already aware that the Casa de Dammit experienced a bit of bat trauma late last night. I was lying in bed, curled up with the fourth volume in that misogynistic mouthful of candy corn that *is* the Twilight series — (If I’ve lost you already, this is the young adult series about vampires and werewolves that’s sweeping the nation) — so when Dave, lying beside me, suddenly said, “What the hell was that?” and I looked up to see a bat? Like, in my bedroom? For all I knew, it was a figment of my imagination. For all I knew, I was in rainy Forks, Washington with Bella and Edward and Jacob, not a care in the world but whether or not me and Edward were gonna do it. So it was a few beats before I answered him with, “Wait — You see it, too?”
And that’s when all hell broke loose.
Dave jumped from bed, ran to the nearby bathroom, and grabbed a towel. Me? I grabbed my cell phone.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Dave yelled. “HELP ME!”
“I AM HELPING!” I yelled back. “I’M TWITTERING!”
While Dave hopped around the bedroom wielding his pink Egyptian cotton weapon, my fingers flew furiously across my BlackBerry.
tweet, 9/3, 9:56pm: “THERE IS A FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM RIGHT NOW. DAVE NEEDS MY HELP BUT I MUST TWITTER THIS. (Do you think it’s Edward??)”
The eerie juxtoposition of the vampire book in my hands and the unlikely bat in my bedroom was more than enough fodder for me to use in the blowing of my own mind. Dave continued to hop and yip and race about while I continued to Tweet.
tweet 9/3, 9:58pm: “WAH! WA WA WAH! YIKES! WHOA! WHOOOOOPS! AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!! DUCK! SHIT!”
tweet, 9/3, 9:59pm: “OMG WHERE DID HE GO IT’S LIKE WHERE’S WALDO BUT WITH RABIES AND VAMPIRES.”
tweet 9/3, 10:02pm: “Wait, am I doing what they call ‘live blogging?’ Some did the DNC, some did the Oscars, I’m doing husband-chasing bat w/pink towel. Figures.”
tweet, 9/3, 10:05pm: “OMG WHY IS DAVE GETTING BACK IN BED WITHOUT ELIMINATING THE BAT PROBLEM? I DIDN’T MARRY A QUITTER, DAVE.”
So I’m twittering my tweets and Dave’s speaking in tongues to the bat and it’s slowly starting to dawn on me: Nobody is coming. Nobody is answering! Nobody cares.
As it turned out, Vice Presidential hopeful Sarah Palin was delivering her widely anticipated speech at the Republican National Convention. It’s all anyone was twittering about. If I had any hope of surviving the bat, it was going to be without any help from my Twitter friends.
tweet, 9/3, 10:08pm: “Clearly all you people care about is the presidency! What is that compared to the Twilight saga reinacting itself IN MY BEDROOM?!”
tweet 9/3, 10:15pm: “My bra snaps and you guys drop everything. But a bat tries to suck my lifeblood? Meh.”
tweet, 9/3, 10:20pm: “Sarah Palin *THERE IS TOTALLY A BAT IN MY BEDROOM* Sarah Palin *IT WILL KILL ME IN MY SLEEP* Sarah Palin *S.O.S.*”
All of this twittering, of course, is periodically rudely interrupted by Dave’s demands to grab this tupperware container, grab that three foot flashlight, go here, do that, get the hell off your damn phone and climb up on top of the piano and hand me that thing!
Time passed like dripping guano. The bat evaded Dave for hours; all three of us slept on and off, confused. More than once I screamed and jumped three feet in my sleep, certain the wretched thing was crawling on my back, convinced the unsuspecting moth that fluttered past my face was the bat demon’s little sister. Of course, the neighborhood coyotes started up like they do almost every night, and as I lay there frozen listening to the cacophonous chorus it occurred to me that coyotes are pretty much wolves which are practically werewolves and oh my god why is this book coming to life??
And Dave was baffled, just baffled, that the creature continued to escape his hitherto unparalleled hunting prowess.
tweet, 9/3, 10:37pm: “The bat is the only animal I can’t beat,” says my husband, standing there in his underwear.”
That’s when my Twitter friends finally showed up. Angela Stockman was first, thereby bonding me to her for life — at least, what remained of it. Bean Hayden suggested I put on a turtleneck, and complimented Dave on his pink towel. Sheila retweeted me, which is the Twitter equivalent of an award (at least, in my book.) Nikki (understandably) became jealous of my time with Edward. Furiousball shared his Bugs Bunny expertise. Kat suggested I take a picture, prompting me to find my camera. Jasperblu wet herself (sorry about that, girl.) ShyTrbleMaker testified, Jim proffered some solid advice on windows, and Mama Dawg bested them all with her offer to move closer and speak bat. Beth was grateful I survived the night (thank you, Beth), Crystal wanted to know how Edward got in there (I suspect so she could replicate the conditions), Christina called it ‘classic,’ and Jen said, “Some people have all the blog luck!” which reminded me that I would most certainly take this story here, to the blog, if I could ever get some sleep, if I could ever finish my work tomorrow – and ohmygod it’s practically 1am so I guess I mean today! – and steal a moment to tell it.
And finally, finally, finally, at 1:20am, Dave bested the beast.
tweet, 9/4, 1:23am: “The bat has been secured. I repeat: the bat has been secured. Praise Jesus.”
As we drifted off to dreamland I was overcome with emotion for my hunter husband, my protector, my savior, and I couldn’t help but ask him for the thirteenth time since I started reading these books if he was a vampire and I was a human, would he love me enough to resist drinking my blood?
I took his answering snore for a yes, as the coyote werewolves howled me to sleep.
