First off, I researched “blind as a bat” as part of this post and apparently bats have excellent vision. So I feel really lied to by idioms.
But in any case, this post is about a bat.
In our house.
And it’s also little bit about the mob and Nutella.
Bat Sh*t Crazy
I came downstairs from putting our two-year-old to bed to find Glen standing in the living room with a blanket, cool as a cucumber, saying “Oh hey, I was wondering what was taking so long. There’s a bat in our house.”
Two immediate thoughts:
- Can I pretend that he didn’t just say that and go sit down with a glass of wine and watch SVU?
- All the curse words.
If you don’t want to read the rest of this post, just watch this video for a live feed of what happened in our house that night. Betcha didn’t know Glen and I have awesome Irish accents did you?
To Catch a
Predator Bat Predator
Googled instructions on “how to get a bat out of your house and out of your life” in hand, we ventured down into the basement where the bat was last seen. But not until I found the largest hat in our house because I am pretty sure that bats like hair.
Oh, and I had to take a minute to post about our current situation on Facebook. Of course. Which was the right decision because the internet came through with one good suggestion for bat remediation and several good jokes.
Creeping around the basement with an iPhone flashlight, and fully clothed but wrapped in a towel for some reason, I was beyond terrified. And yet my loving husband had the nerve to say to me “He’s more scared of us than we are of him.”
Oh really? I doubt it. I don’t have rabies. I can’t speak for that bat. Also, who says the bat is a guy. Sexist much? Gosh, Glen…
Fast forward five more minutes and my big strong husband and I were both anxiously looking behind every nook and cranny of the basement both hoping to find and desperately hoping NOT to find this little devil rat with wings. Both of us shaking with justified fear.
Then I decided it was important that I stand guard by the basement door to make sure that a fisher cat didn’t come in the door we had opened for the bat to fly out of. That’s right. A fisher cat… Which I may have been mixing up with a mountain lion. I think this is what we call an irrational fear spiral.
Up to Bat
As I stood on fisher cat guard I accidentally found the bat hanging out like he owned the joint up on the top of the wall. “GLEN (in a harsh whisper). I found… The bat.”
Glen geared up in gloves, a trash bag, and my least favorite Tupperware and he got ready to scoop the bat. I continued to stand guard to make sure the bat didn’t fly back up the stairs all the while giving myself a mobster style pep talk. “Protect the family, Becca. PROTECT THE FAMILY!”
The bat DID NOT want to be scooped though. And he wriggled his angry little body out of the Tupperware and starting flying laps around the basement while I held up my towel and alternated between nervous laughter and yelling “AHHHHHHHH!”
Glen’s reaction was WAY better though. It was like he was in a cage match with the bat, chasing it around the basement with a blanket while simultaneously trying just as hard not to be anywhere near the bat. To paraphrase the audio from this encounter:
EXPLETIVE! AHHHH! EXPLETIVE! AHHHH!!! EXPLETIVE! I GOT ITTTT!!!!!!!!!
Then he proceeded to drag the pile of blankets and towels covering the bat out the door into the pouring rain while I cheered enthusiastically – “You’re doing it! YOU’RE DOING IT!”
As soon as the blankets were flipped outside, Glen slammed the basement door. And locked it. You know just in case bats are vengeful and have opposable thumbs.
And then we did what we always do. Laugh. Hysterically. Especially when Glen said this:
Like a Bat Out of Hell
I capped off the night the only way I knew how, because when a bat tries to accost your family you need all the wine.
And all the Nutella.
And all the keyboards because you’re going to need to write this story down.
With pride and without rabies,