Weekday evenings in winter are fairly uneventful inside the Weinstein household. I walk in the door after eight hours of work and immediately rip the professional attire off my weary bones in exchange for sweat pants and a t-shirt.
Following dinner, my husband Bob and I head to the Family Room to watch TV while my 18-year old daughter Melissa retires to the living room or her bedroom to tackle the latest senior year home work project.
After a couple hours, Bob tunes the tube to zombie flicks or election coverage (not much difference, I know). Having no desire to watch either, I typically join Melissa in the living room, becoming one with my computer as Facebook fills the hours 'till bed.
As last Tuesday evening unfolded, our routine bore no difference to every other winter night. By 9 pm, I had digested all I could from my Facebook news feed and decided to head upstairs to read before bed. I stopped into the kitchen where I had a clear view of Bob, sitting comfy on his designated spot on the couch.
Before I had the chance to let him know that he could find me upstairs, my husband let out these now infamous words:
Being the oh so brave, devoted wife that I am...
"THERE'S A BAT IN THE HOUSE!" I exclaimed in response to Melissa's befuddled stare.
My thoughts turned to Bob, trapped downstairs with our new house guest. Oh well, logic dictated I must stay in my daughter's room until, um, let's see, the end of time? Bob and I had enjoyed nearly 22 years together. We had a good run. It had to be this way.
But wait! Another crisis. In my haste to escape the death grip of our flying friend, I HAD LEFT MY PHONE DOWNSTAIRS. I could let the bat take my husband, but no way would I part with my phone!
But wait! Crisis averted! Melissa had her phone. My connection to the world had not been severed!
Much to her chagrin, I ripped the phone out of her hands and dialed my darlin', who, fortunately was still alive downstairs.
My "brave" husband cowered by the front door, keeping a sharp eye on the house guest from hell, who had decided to move the party to the kitchen.
This was not the first time the Weinstein family had encountered a noctural terror. A bat had entered our dwelling in the summer of 2002, a story you can read by clicking here.
You would think our previous encounter with bats would have boosted our confidence.
Yeah...not so much.
From the safety of Melissa's bedroom, I gave Bob instructions, such as "swat it with a broom".
Only one problem. The broom lived in the pantry, located in the kitchen, which was now under complete control of Mr. Bat.
Time to move onto Plan B.
"Open the front door," I suggested, still giving instruction via phone from my daughter's barricaded bedroom. "Maybe the thing will fly out."
Bob dutifully obeyed, but our guest had no interest in escaping the Weinstein's hospitality. It flew back into the Family Room and promptly disappeared, perhaps plotting its next move to annihilate our family.
"I don't know where it went," shouted Bob as he creeped into the now bat-free kitchen and finally grabbed onto the broom. Acting much braver than I felt, I slowly opened Melissa's bedroom door and made my way towards the lower level of the house, stopping halfway down the stairs. I figured it I didn't actually set foot on the lower level, the bat would leave me alone.
Mr. Bat, in the meantime, had resumed flight in the Family Room. Trying to think logically while my husband swatted at the creature (to no avail) with the broom, I called animal control. No luck. They were closed.
At a complete loss, I mentally ran through my options:
1. Attempt to go to sleep and call animal control in the morning, content with the knowledge that a creature from hell had taken over the lower level of my home.
2. Go to a hotel.
3. Burn down the house.
4. Call the police.
I chose option 4.
The officer who showed up at our front door a few minutes later could not have been nicer. I felt terrible for calling, knowing that surely there were more important things for a police officer to do than help the wacky Weinsteins rid their house of a bat.
He shrugged off our concern, assuring us that bat-calls are a fairly routine occurence for our local police department.
With the calm born out of his training, the officer used a tupperware bowl to gently trap the bat (who now clung to our fireplace) and set it free outside, where it belonged!
As I fell asleep that night, I wondered, did our house guest know about our previous bat adventure that humid summer evening some 14 years ago. Did it know that I killed his cousin with a can of Raid? Had it come back, all these years later, to seek revenge?
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PS - this is my 200th blog post! Thanks to all of you for visiting my blog and reading my stories.