On mornings when I get to work early, I like to step outside and check on my tiny garden. Lately, it has been damp, and the whole place is crawling with snails.
Although I'm an animal-lover, I just can't bring myself to love the snails. They really are pests, and at this point, all the plants in my garden have been selected because the snails won't mow them down to the ground. I've spent a lot of money on California native plants that were completely devoured by snails in less than a day.
I don't use any chemicals in my garden, and I think that stomping snails is disgusting. My method of snail control involves a one-way trip over the corrugated metal garden wall. Last Thursday, I sent sixty snails sailing over the wall, and this morning I chucked another fifty-five. Giving snails sky-diving lessons makes me an Official Crazy Lady.
I was chatting with one of my co-workers about the garden. I told her about the snail problem I've been having, and that I always imagine inadvertently pelting my co-workers with snails. She and I were laughing about this. We laughed even harder when one of the other carpenters said that he had been been walking to work that very morning, talking to his girlfriend on the phone, and was caught in the rain of snails. He was new to the shop, didn't know that there was a garden, or that he was working with a crazy snail-tosser. He had no idea what was going on.
I think I giggled about this all day long, mostly because I've been envisioning this scenario for something like two years. Robb's imagined version is even sillier: it involves a convertible.