Momma snores. And does she snore.

She crashed on my couch for the evening, but apparently, my living room isn’t good enough for sleeping a full night. How do I know this? Momma was under my bed when I woke up. I tripped over her tail and came within an inch of caving my nose in on the bedside table. That’s a failing on my account, though. I should’ve known this when I let a possibly-matriarch venomous snake stay in my house.

Her noise woke me up a number of times in the early hours, but to be completely honest, I don’t mind. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere to be in the next hundred years, give or take. Soon, I’m going to get out there and fix that fence, because If i hired a contractor they’d probably want to know just why I went outside without proper equipment to handle a toxic reptile ten times my weight. After I invite him in for some coffee and he sees my gal pal roomie with a temper laying on my couch, phone calls would likely be made. It’s just a missing post. How hard can it really be?

Very hard, as it would show. There’s a hole there, and since this is my land, it’s a gate. I say so. I collapsed the lower beam on the fence by kneeling on it. But it’s fine. In other news, Momma’s up and about again. She’s in my bedroom right now, exploring a little bit. When I realised she wasn’t downstairs anymore I picked up all the cutlery and started cleaning the floor from all the stuff she threw out of the fridge. I’m pretty sure I found all of the carrot slices, but honestly, I’m too afraid to say. I had to vacuum the couch because Momma sheds heavy in her sleep. And I can’t say I’m not honoured to have her snake-butt smell burned into the upholstery forever. I started everything under the kitchen sink, but stopped when I realised that I was turning the couch pale white and chemically mixing chlorine gas. You’d think as a scientist, I would know better. Well, I don’t. I’ve been out of the game for two years. The last experiment I conducted involved trying sweetener in my coffee.

My laptop’s telling me that it’s Thanksgiving today, so I’ve decided that this year, despite every cell in my little haggis-loving body screaming no, no, no, I will be celebrating. I’m not a professional chef by any means and, unfortunately, none of my equipment to hand can help me here. It’s three in the afternoon right now. I reckon I could knock this out in five hours if I really push. Four and a half, if I cut time for questioning why I’m cooking dinner for a two-ton wild animal who tore apart my kitchen. Anyway— turkey, tatties (The Americans like to say “spuds,”), green beans, sweet potato pie, and that’s all I can think of for a hearty American Thanksgiving. Uncle Sam is frowning down on me, and I can tell.

Alright— I’m finished. It’s nearly midnight, but Momma’s still up, so Thanksgiving dinner is still on. The turkey’s in the oven, and everything went suprisingly smoothly. And do I feel like a big smarty-pants, now! I might be the most generous biologist since Steve Irwin, feeding the wildlife. She’s just wandered into the kitchen with me. Probably because she caught a whiff my delicious my delicious ‘murica-bird, perfectly seasoned and roasting to perfection in the oven. I’ve made the decision to overdo it completely, because I’m on my feet now and I am a reluctant American, like it or not.

That was a horrid mistake. I nearly became the world’s newest Timothy Treadwell, and Momma’s no longer allowed back in the house. I’ll tell it as it is, no fluff:

I set everything out on my magical firepit that turns into a table, and it was all going good. I figured I’d set the turkey out last. Turns out, I’m a natural Gordon Ramsay, because she scoffed just about everything I set out. She downed seven pounds of potatoes in one go, literally threw the gravy down her throat, turned a whole sweet potato pie into history even though I totally botched that part, and the green beans? Didn’t stand a fighting chance at entering her body. Fair enough, because that was just being curteous. Frisbeeing the dish at the wall was a slight overreaction on her part, but it’s now clear to me that Momma knows what she wants. Then the turkey came out.

Oh, how I regret even trying. I took the turkey out of the oven, and it was the second most beautiful bird I’ve ever seen. British joke. I did sort of want to eat tonight. I saved myself a couple slices of pie in the fridge and a bowl of mashed potatoes, which I’m currently enjoying right now. I hate mashed potatoes, and the sweetie pie needed a spoonful or ten of sugar topped to be remotely “sweet.” Anyway. Put the turkey down, and Momma was looking ravenous. I reached over, audaciously grabbed a leg, and Momma lunged. She bit down on my arm and punctured skin. Whoops. Maybe there’s a real reason why alexander monnas aren’t America’s favourite housepet. If you’re wondering why I’m not dead, it’s because she narrowly missed my arm with her fangs. But her little back teeth damn near broke the thing.

I shouldn’t be whining like it’s her fault, because objectively, it’s mine. She’s a wild animal. I pushed a boundary, and that’s on me. It could be worse. Momma could’ve put 4,000 psi on my arm and ripped it clean off if she wanted to.

If she’s gone, then things go back to normal.

If she comes back, then I’ll be more careful.

I know she didn’t mean to.