Here's the sequel to my story from the past... or known also as "The Spider Stuck on the Seat".
Hope you enjoy :)
Imagine, one year later, summer of 2001, no longer residents in the smallish blue apartment. Instead, owners of a home, new to us, in South Ogden. It was (still is) a great home. Fuller now than it was then, the upstairs bedrooms are actually utilized as such; they are bedrooms now. Then, not so much. Just a couple of nice places to store our many hobby associated items and tools.. okay, my things.
We had just finished a day of pulling out a tree (the half dead tree referred to in a previous post..) and bushes from the front yard. We had also been moving some large rocks and arranging them better in the front flower beds. We were tired, totally pooped. Merrill came inside before I did to get the swamp cooler (a.k.a. evaporative cooler) going. I was outside cleaning some tools, putting them away.. Ken (my brother) stopped by. There was a rock too big for us to move, and he, partially being a Mayes, and the other factor, being a guy, thought he could move it. Not so much.. but that's not the point to this particular part of my story here.. he was witness to Merrill, screaming for me to come inside because there was a spider in our bathroom. I was (sometimes still am) the spider killer. My services were needed.
I came inside and straightaway, took care of that spider with some Charmin toilet paper, and promptly flushed the squished bugger down the loo. So you think he'd be grateful, right? He was.. and that is all the humiliation I can inflict upon him in this post, and I am taking full advantage of that. As I will be the one at who's expense you will soon be laughing.
So, I had killed the spider, disposed of it, rescued my arachnophobic prince, and thought, that was that..
I went to close the doors to those extra rooms, you know, the ones I spoke of above?.. you need to close the doors to the rooms you DON'T want to be cooled-off to enjoy the cool air of the swamper in the room of choice. This is the science I have learned from owning a swamp cooler.
I shut the first door, with no excitement, just the way shutting a door to a room filled with only "things" should be.
The second door was not so much that way. The door was nearly shut all the way, when, simultaneously, as the door's pin interlocked with it's home within the hole of the strike plate, there was a loud "pop!"... the left side of my face was pelted with what felt like sand... sand with velocity.
It freaked me out, to be quite honest.
When my heart began beating again, my mouth opened and yelled, "MERRILLLLL!!!"
The only reply I got from across the hall was his snicker.
I re-opened the door to investigate the method of his prank, and it was just as I had suspected, after the impulse thought of gunfire was ruled out; a pop-it, taped with scotch tape to the inside of the door jamb, nearest the hinge. Grayish-black film marked where the small explosion, that made me nearly pee my pants, took place.
That was cruel.. good, but cruel.
I didn't make the connection, yet. I would, though.. with some help.
He wasn't done.
I went to my side of the closet, changed into my PJs and slid the door shut. When the door stopped, in it's resting place against the wall, I was once again, greeted with the harassing "pop!" and subsequent shower of tiny rocks, again.
The grayish-black puff of color, and paper wrapper, scotch-taped to the wall, both remained as evidence of what had just transpired.
That time, the only reaction he got was a glare.
He produced more of a laugh this time at my reaction.
He did remind me, there was some justified revenge in his little prank. I provoked him, and this was his retaliation.
I racked my brain to ANYTHING I could have possibly have done to warrant such an assault.. and then recalled. Which made ME laugh. And I was expecting a well-placed picture of a clown (a.k.a. a serial killer in grease paint). This was not that.
But still, he was not done.
There would be one more, so strategically placed, so unassuming, I was certainly not expecting it. It would indeed, make his revenge perfect.
I entered our tiny master bathroom ( which still is tiny..) and I proceeded to remove my make-up, wash my face, and then brush my teeth.
The last of my nightly bedtime routine was to use the toilet..
I sat down upon the porcelain throne, just as I had many times before, not expecting anything out of the ordinary.. oh, but there was something..
Tiny rocks once again pelted me, this time, below the belt, quite literally.
My bum to be outright specific.
Full on attack.
I had to laugh.. yelling while on the toilet is unattractive I am sure.
And because it was funny...
There has not been a practical joke war of the likes since.
I'll admit, he won.
I couldn't help but laugh as I scrubbed the grayish-black pop-it mark off of the underside of the toilet seat later.