Froggy went a courtin'

My husband entered the kitchen, walked right up to me and uttered a phrase never before said in the history of mankind.


“A frog urinated on my hand.”

Excuse me?

“A what did what on your hand?” I exclaimed.

He put his hand right up to my face and repeated, “A frog. URINATED.” He waved his hand two inches from my nose and continued, “On. My. Hand.”

I quickly brushed his hand of stickiness aside and replied in a most supportive manner, “Ewwwww!”

He hollered, “I KNOW! I didn’t know frogs could do that!”

My husband then began his tale of woe.

“I was in the garage,” he said, “when I noticed there was this frog. On the wall. Just sitting there.” He repeated, “On the wall. Like he owned the place.”

“Is he some kind of magic frog?” I asked in wonder. Maybe my husband getting squirted by a radioactive amphibian would bestow special froggy powers, kinda like Spider Man.

Only not nearly as cool.

“No, he’s not some magic frog,” my husband insisted. “He had these sticky, webby, suction cup things on his legs so he could stick to the wall.”

Yes, I’m sure “suction cup things” would be the correct scientific term here.

“I reached up to pull him off, grabbed him,” he said, “and felt something run down my hand!”

The look on his face was priceless, and I tried hard not to crack a smile. Really, really, really hard.

OK, maybe not so hard.

I snorted with laughter, pointed to his hand and said, “Well, you’re lucky he did a #1 rather than laying something else.”

“What?” he exclaimed as he walked over to the sink and grabbed the biggest bottle of soap he could find. “Like a #1 is any less gross than a #2?” He sniffed his hand, “And you won’t believe how much this stinks!”

I shrugged and said, “I’m just saying. Things could have been worse. It’s really just a matter of perspective.”

Mr. The Glass Is Half Empty was not amused and continued scrubbing at his hands like Lady Macbeth.

I admit I was curious. Blame my choice of avoiding college biology in favor of theater appreciation, but I had no idea frogs could pee. Or would pee. Or would want to pee.

So I got to thinking. Then really freaked out my husband by saying, “What if it wasn’t urine?”

He froze at the sink. Turned slowly, looked straight into my eyes with terror and asked, “What?”

I smiled and sweetly said, “What if it was…” pausing for dramatic effect….“something else?”

He gulped nervously, looked down at his hands and began to hyperventilate.

Oh, this was fun.

“Maybe the frog, you know, wants to be your boyfriend instead,” I hypothesized. Then I sat back and waited for the show to begin.

…Sooooo after my husband regained consciousness and picked himself up from the kitchen floor he tore into the office and began furiously banging keys on the computer.

I smiled. Like a puppet on a string.

I casually followed, walked up behind him and asked, “Whatcha doing?”

Hands shaking in fear, he kept hitting the wrong keys until finally screaming “AHA!” and sat back in the chair, pointing at the screen.

I leaned over to read, “Why do frogs pee when you pick them up?”

Wow.

Seriously.

You CAN find anything on the Internet.

I continued to read the Web posting from the frog expert, someone who probably knows the correct term is NOT “suction cup things.”

“Right there!” my husband shouted. “It says right there that frogs pee when you pick them up because it’s a defense mechanism. And it stinks so predators won’t try to eat them. So there!”

He slumped back in his chair in vindicated relief.

I patted him on the back and said, “So, now you’re happy a frog peed on you?” Then I smiled and said, “Come on. I’ll get you a beer. That’ll make you feel better.”

He shook his head and turned back to the computer.

“What are you doing now?” I asked.

With determination, he answered, “Looking for frog leg recipes. Next time I see Kermit, he’s going down.”

Pee on him once, shame on you.

Pee on him twice, you’re dinner.