"There's a Snake in my Boot!"

It's always nice to get all dolled up and go out to dinner and drinks with your boyfriend, so when you don't have a boyfriend, why should one be pried of this luxury? You shouldn't.

I recently won one hundred big ones from a beer selling contest at work and my good friend Keith was forced into drinking said beers for one whole month (instead of the comfort of his usual Miller Lite), so I decided to take him out to dinner and show my appreciation for his friendship.

Right before he came to pick me up, a passing lawn maintenance man knocked on the door and asked roomie if he could mow the lawn (my job), to which she replies no thanks. On his way off, he says, "Oh by the way, there's a black snake in your yard."

Roomie seems to show no kind of emotion toward this conversation and goes on to her room where she shouts "Bye, have fun! There's a snake in the yard!"

Me: "Pardon me?"

Big black snake, to me, means chicken snake. Not okay. But why on earth would there be a chicken snake in my jungle yard? Are there chickens nearby? I have no idea. People have been starting their own coops in town, it's been a big issue in the paper, so perhaps it could be a chicken snake. What if it's a black mamba? Just kidding, but for real. I don't like where this is going. I've had a few encounters with snakes before, namely large black ones, and I hate to see history repeat itself.

Roomie (from Michigan, I might add): "What's the big deal? This is Texas. There are snakes in Texas."

Me: "Yes, but not in my yard."

I go out and grab a shovel. This sonofabitch is going to die. Dangerous or not, no snakes allowed in MY yard. Poor Keith pulls up to my house to find me, baby doll dress on, yielding a shovel and standing perched on the porch overlooking the yard in hopes to find this self-entitled bastard of a snake and chop its stinking head off. It's a good thing this wasn't a blind date.

So we went on to wine and dine, (the snake never showed his lousy neck) downtown at Sullivan's and Perla's on South Congress. Oysters, calamari, vodka, crab cakes, and steak later, we called up our pals to meet us at the saloon and overall had a rip-roaring time.

At the end of the night, my Michigan roommate beat your very own country girl in a thrilling game of arm wrestle, I am ashamed to admit. Let's blame it on the booze.

A chicken snake. Bastard.