I’m being stalked.

And not just your run-of-the-mill stalking, either.

I’m being stalked by an evil plastic dinosaur.

Brace yourself, for this is what greeted me during my bath:

There I was.

Nekked as a jaybird and terrified.

The eyes.  The yellow, malicious eyes.

 

Now, you may be wondering why – oh, why – I had a camera handy in the bathtub with me.

Bwahahahaha!  I’ll never tell.

Tell us, Beth.

OK, you broke me.  I’ll tell.

(What can I say?  I wouldn’t do well under torture.)

I keep my phone (the smart one that has a camera) next to me in the bathtub in case there’s a kid emergency.  I am a mother of 5 children; I need to be available around the clock.

Isn’t that noble?

And, um, I also keep my phone next to me in case I need Greg to refill my wine glass.

Hey.  Emergencies come in all kinds of flavors, right?  Like Merlot flavor.  And Pinot Noir flavor.  And Sangiovese flavor.

‘Cause nothing’s worse than being wet and cold and trying to explain to the mob of neighborhood kids who run in and out of my house as though it’s a regular thoroughfare why I’m clutching a wine bottle in one hand and holding my towel closed with the other. That’s how neighborhood rumors get started.  Or how they persist.

Thank goodness for my phone, then, right?  It prevents all kinds of awkward situations.

But back to that evil dinosaur perched on the edge of the tub.

After I got over my initial terror, I pulled out my camera phone and started snapping.

I figured that if my family later found my lifeless body floating in the tub with tiny, plastic bite marks all over, they’d know what happened by looking at the photographic evidence.

Then I looked through the photos and had to retake the picture ’cause I realized that the metal overflow drain is reflective.  And the only thing worse than having your mother ruthlessly murdered by a possessed toy is having a permanent record of your less-than-clothed mum as seen through the fun-house mirror that is our overflow drain.

Best use of the “delete photo” button ever.

Then I finished my bath, attired myself appropriately, and went downstairs to play with eggs.

Eggs have recently become very important at our house.

“Duuuuude.  Eegggggs.”

Way back last week, we used to buy enormous quantities of eggs at our local discount grocery store.  Like, five dozen at a time.

But then, we got to play with our neighbors’ chickens in return for free, lovely, brown eggs with the most amazingly orange yolks.  And next, my dad sourced local duck eggs for us.

Thus began a week-long crush on the incredible, edible egg.  The egg bounty around here is inspiring and delicious.

Here they are, for your viewing pleasure:

Left to right: a local chicken egg, a grocery store chicken egg, and a duck egg.

A local chicken egg, a grocery store chicken egg, and a duck egg walked into a bar.  (Ouch.)  And the bartender said, “You shouldn’t do that. You’re getting scrambled.”

Hee hee.  I made that joke up all by myself.

Please accept my sincere apology.

And, also…

Why can’t you tease egg whites?

Because they can’t take a yolk.

Ba ha!

I didn’t make that one up.

But I’m still really sorry.

I have no good excuse.

Except that it’s probably a reaction to the terror-inducing, evil, plastic dinosaur.  I’ve always tended to respond to stress with inappropriate humor.

‘Cause guess who was waiting for me as soon as I finished making my duck-egg omelette?

YEP!

And since I didn’t put him there, I’m forced to conclude he walked his own evil dinosaur self downstairs.

The terror lives on.

It’s eggscrutiating.