925. A Is for Abominable Snowman

The Abominable Snowman lives under my bed.  At least that is what my former 9-year-old self used to think.  Of course, my current 44-year-old self no longer believes in such nonsense.  That is, until The Husband and our young sons go camping without me for two nights. 

At first, I revel in the freedom.  Forty-eight hours of Me Time!  I can eat chocolate ice-cream for dinner.  And breakfast.  I can wear pajamas the whole time and not wash my hair and no one will care.  I can read trashy movie-star magazines or watch back-to-back episodes of House Hunters for three hours straight and no one will stop me.  Yay! 

This is going to be the best 48 hours of my life!    

But then the clock ticks up near 11 pm and I start to feel uncomfortable being So.  Very.  Alone.  All you can hear is me slurping melted Haagen-Dazs, and in the background an animated conversation between those first-time home buyers from Nashville who have recently relocated to Miami and are shocked at the high prices of beachfront condos.  I finally turn off the TV, and my house goes eerily silent, like it is covered in Saran Wrap.  Saran Wrap made from Abominable Snowmen fluff.    

I go from room to room, making sure every door and window are locked and there are no signs of Abominable Snowmen footprints or sheddings.  I barricade the kitchen door with a chair and a big bag of recycling, just in case.  I leave the hall light on, something I never do.  The house glows bluish-white, the exact color of Abominable Snowmen.     

For no absolutely reason at all, I have trouble falling asleep.  Huh.  Weird.    

The Abominable Snowman lurks under my half-empty queen-sized bed, waiting for me.  To keep him company, he has brought along his BFF, Big Foot.  How could I ever have agreed to let The Husband and the boys go camping without me?  What was I thinking? 

Ultimately, I drift into a fitful sleep, but find myself saucer-eyed awake at 5 am, Big Foot’s finest hour.  Of new and immediate concern are the potential UFOs landing on the roof. 

Of course there are no UFOs, what with the age of the roof and all.  No alien in his right mind is going to chance crashing through the decrepit old shingles.  Neither are there any Abominable Snowmen, as my house is much too warm now that I have cranked the thermostat to an Abominable-Snowman-wilting 74 degrees. 

But we all know that heat does not bother Big Foot.  He likes warm.  That is why he has been sighted in summer as well as winter.         

Somehow I manage to make it through the rest of my day, and around dinner time, a miraculous thing happens:  my loving family walks in the door. 

“What are you doing home so early?” I ask, trying to contain my relief and pleasure that they are home so early.  I do not want to disclose my bizarre fear of scary creatures last seen on the Discovery Channel’s Myths and Legends series.  (Really, MOV, what next?  The Loch Ness Monster?  Unicorns? Centaurs?  Gargoyles and Griffins that come to life?)  “I thought you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.” 

“It started to snow,” says The Husband matter-of-factly with a slight shrug for emphasis, “we didn’t want to get stuck.” 

I nod.  I suppress another smile.  “You made the right choice, Sweetie.”    

“But guess who I saw at the campground!” squeals my younger son, Short, excitedly. 

I wait for him to tell me one of the usual suspects:  raccoon, deer, hawks, or some happy cartoonish woodland creature.   

“I think I saw Big Foot!” he confirms. 

I involuntarily gasp.  Turns out everyone has seen Big Foot at one time or another.        

It’s going to be a long night ….

MOV