Ribbit

Here is the absolute best story of my week:
Thursday morning, I stumbled, bleary-eyed, to the shower and Chris came in to brush his teeth. Then he said, "Uh, you might want to stay in there for a minute." And I, not having had any coffee yet and struggling with the morning fog, asked him why. Because the only things I could think of were pretty gross and most of them involved my nervous dog who loses control of her bodily functions when things don't go according to routine.

And he replied, "Because there's a frog in here."

And I said, "What? Are you kidding?" Because he really could have been. He knows that the only time he can really pull one over on me is before coffee.

So I poked my head out through the shower curtain and started laughing - no, cackling - at the sight I beheld. There was a really big bullfrog sitting on the back of the toilet, next to Chris' razor. Chris looked pretty stressed out. I guess Mr. Frog had been sitting on the (closed) toilet seat and gave my poor, grizzly honey quite a start.
So, Chris went to get a container and I was screaming and laughing, "Get the camera! Get the camera! Get the camera!" And Chris was saying that no, he would not because he had to catch that thing. But he obliged and I stood there, dripping wet hand sticking out of the shower, trying to get a shot. And I didn't get one.
So I started rinsing out my conditioner and Chris said a few choice words and I asked him what had happened. He told me the frog had started jumping. And I think I squealed, "Really?" Before I burst out laughing again. And he irritably stated that, in fact, that's what frogs do. And told him that I knew that much about frogs, but I couldn't help it. I really liked that frog.
Mr. Frog was finally located, hiding in the cubby that holds our plunger and Chris gingerly carried it out the back door. And I was determined not to be thwarted in my efforts to get a photo.
So I jumped off the shower and dried off the big drips and headed out the back door.
After several shots, I realized that I was squatting on the back porch, wrapped in a towel, my wet hair sticking up in every direction, trying to hold the towel closed in the right places while trying to take a low-light photograph.
And then I wondered why my attempts at modesty were limited to merely keeping the towel closed. Because we don't have a fence across the back, it was dark outside, and my porch light was on. With me out there in plain sight, laughing wildly at the frog (which they could not see, I'm sure), squatting and balancing on my tip-toes and taking pictures. Pictures of a plunger caddy, from what anyone further than 10 feet might be able to guess.
Oh dear.
It was dark and my camera was still set on all the settings I'd played with the night before, so I ended up just having to take a picture with my flash. Here's the poor little fellow:

He's got my hair all stuck on his feet, but I felt so bad for his frightful morning.
And when I got inside, I started to feel bad for my husband's frightful morning. I realized that he had not laughed at all throughout this incident. I asked him if he had an issue with frogs.
He turned up his nose and said he didn't like them.
And I laughed again, accusing him of being scared of frogs.
He defended himself aggressively, reminding me that he can pick up a roach with his bare hands (I kid you not - that is exactly what he said when I called him out). He said he just doesn't like the fact that they will pee on you.
Whatever.