Sometimes life is just not exciting enough.

At others, it's plenty exciting.

Let me tell you about one of the times of plenty.

It seems the other day at the Stacy household we found one of the hidden damages of Hurricane Opal.

(Remember Opal?

Remember rain?

Remember hurricane season?

Can you say "power outage"?)

I digress.

What happened is I was bopping about the yard, trying to decide if it was time yet to call our yard maintenance technician (also known as Tim Grayson, who will probably enjoy the plug) when I found what used to be the sheet metal cover to the top of the chimney in our living room blown into the thickest corner of the fence in the back yard.

I thought nothing of it, as nothing had happened in the years since Opal huffed and puffed her way in and out of our lives.

I should have known that shiver down my back was a forboding of things to come , not a cool breeze.

Fast forward a few days.

I get a call at work from my wife, who, when she went home for lunch, swore, (or at least I think she did, but she was talking kind of fast to be sure) that there was "something the size of a tyrannosaurus running about the living room."

I headed for the house, and sure enough, we had a squirrel in the living room.

He wasn't quite the size of a T-rex, but he was where he shouldn't have been.

So, with Angel's face flush against the glass in the door, I proceeded to open the front door, make one shooing sound, and watch little Mr. Squirrel scurry back to his pecan tree.

End of story.

WRONG!

Next day.

Same time.

Same call. Open door, same results.

Look up chimney to see what I can do, figure squirrel has figured out he's not wanted.

WRONG AGAIN, MR. BRILLIANT!

The following Sunday morning

I'm awakened at the crack of dawn by not one, but two females both swearing that "they heard something in the living room and it sounded like somebody trying to break in!"

Grunt, groan, and mumble to the French doors in the living room and Lo and behold, my little friend has brought his girlfriend over for breakfast and the morning news.

I, personally, could have probably put up with the little hairy rascals.

After all, I lived with a roommate in college who gauged the time to wash his clothes by the thickness of the mold layer on the outside.

However, when a wife and a daughter both descend on you, it's time to see the squirrels out.

Then I saw the piece de'resistance.

Those furry tailed little demons from the trees bordering the River Styx had gotten into the brand new pack of Jelly Belly jelly beans I had left next to my recliner in anticipation of the Braves game.

Now, they had to go!

I didn't want to shoot them with a pellet gun because (a) I might miss and take out some really important thing like the TV or (b) I might actually hit them and then have to scrub little squirrel parts off the carpet .

I decided that I would hurry them on with a few swats from the broom, which should let them know who's boss in this house.

Remember the Ray Stevens song about the squirrel in church?

Well, as I descended on those two little bewhiskered interlopers, they broke into a set of moves that looked like the Blue Angels on a good day.

I don't care what anyone says, when a squirrel runs across your feet and starts up your leg, you MOVE!

Across the couch, over the coffee table, knock over the lamp, back to the chimney, a couple of swats with the broom, I chase the squirrels, the squirrels chase back…and what makes the whole thing worse is your wife and daughter laying in the dining room floor laughing so hard they're crying.

Let me tell you, trying to dance the squirrel fandango gives new meaning to the words aerobic workout.

The squirrels have now moved on out, the metal is back up on the chimney top, and my jelly beans are safe for now. But I still check to see if any little beady eyes are upon me when I settle in for the evening.

And if they are, Angel and Savannah can chase them this time.