Spiders Are Evil

Spiders are evil.

I first addressed this theory when I was five or so. My older sister and I were playing on the floor at Grandma’s house. She looked at me and said, rather calmly, “There’s a spider on your leg.”

“Nuh-UH!” I replied. I figured she was just trying to scare me.

“No, there is! There’s a spider on your leg.”

“Nuh-UH!”

“Really, there’s a spider on your leg!”

“Nuh-UH!”

Then I turned and looked at my leg, and there was a spider on it. It looked like this:

I know where you live...

I think I must have blacked out or something, because the next thing I knew I was in my Grandma’s arms screaming bloody murder. She tried to reassure me, but what did she know? That spider was out for blood.

Based on this encounter I staunchly avoided all arachnids until second grade. That’s when I found out my friend Sarah LOVED spiders. One autumn day we came across a spider web with a large, but colorful, spider in it.

“LOOK AT THAT PRETTY SPIDER!” Sarah gushed. “Let’s name it ‘Beauty’ and catch grasshoppers for it to eat!”

I was onboard with this plan, as it meant I had an excuse to run far, far away from the spiderweb. All autumn we caught grasshoppers and moths and placed them in the vicinity of Beauty’s web. I slowly developed a cordial relationship with my spider friend. Perhaps some sort of reconciliation could be made

Can I be your friend?

Eventually we were forced inside by sub-zero temperatures. We waited anxiously all winter for the snow to melt, so we could reunite with Beauty. Alas, when that glorious day came, Beauty was nowhere to be found. The peace negotiations came to an abrupt end; I still hated spiders.

My third proof that spiders were not the harmless helpful creatures they claim to be came when I was 13. My parents left my sister and I at home alone one night while they went out with friends. Late in the evening, I wandered into the back of the house to use the bathroom when I saw a giant black spider right next to the bathroom door. It looked like this:

I'm baaaaack...

My sister and I ran around in a state of panic screaming, “WHAT DO WE DO???? WHAT DO WE DO??? Finally, we collected ourselves and formulated a plan.

My sister took a large plastic cup and placed it over the spider. I then used masking tape to quickly secure the cup to the carpet. The spider was now sealed in an impenetrable chamber, imprisoned until Mom and Dad got home.

It was the logical thing to do.

When Mom and Dad got home, we showed them our spider holding cell. But, like the doomed opening of Al Capone’s vault, when Dad removed the masking tape and lifted the cup, the spider was gone.

It’s still out there looking for me.

But now I have a problem (other than my irrational fear of spiders). I stay at home with the children. Sometimes there are spiders around, and since I’m the adult (or at least the oldest), it is up to me to do something about these trespassing arachnids.

Screaming isn’t appropriate - I don’t want to frighten my children.

Touching the spider isn’t appropriate - I might die, and then who will make dinner, WHO?

Lifting the spider into a container to take it outside isn’t appropriate - I’m a klutz, and the spider would probably end up falling in my mouth, where it would get all urban-legendy and lay eggs that would hatch in my sleep and I’d find thousands of tiny spiders crawling all over me. And we can’t have THAT, can we?

No, the only thing I can do is politely greet the spider, and then ... avoid it. Which maybe is what I should’ve been doing all along.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Toddler turned three last Saturday. We haven’t told her yet. Her party isn’t until Sunday, and if we told her last Saturday, the conversation would go like this:

“Happy Birthday, honey! You are 3 years old today!”

“I’m 3! It’s my birthday! Now I get presents, and balloons, and cake, and every one hides and yells ‘Surprise’!”

“Actually honey, your party isn’t until next week Sunday. Your party is next week.”

“WHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!”

(Sunday) “Is it my party yet?”

“No.”

(Monday) “Is it my party yet?”

“No.”

(Tuesday) “Is it my party yet?”

“No.”

(Wednesday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Thursday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Friday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Saturday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Sunday) "Is it my party yet?"

"Yes! Happy Birthday!"

"I’m 4!"

Long story short, she’s 3 now, and is no longer a Toddler.

Crap, now what do I call her on my blog?

When I started my blog, except for myself, I always changed the names of any one I referenced, unless I had their express permission to use their real name. Privacy issues, and all.

Because I couldn’t gain their express permission to use their real names, and because it helped readers understand how old my children were, I referred to them as “Baby” and “Toddler.”

Except I forgot that kids grow up. Now Toddler has to be referred to as “Preschooler” (even though she doesn’t attend preschool yet) or “3-year-old” (which is kind of a mouthful). Also, if one reads my earlier posts, will they realize the child now referred to as “Preschooler” was once referred to as “Toddler” and the child now referred to as “Toddler” was once referred to as “Baby”?

Arrrgg.

I could just use their real names, but then there’s no way to know how old they are unless I say “X, who is 3,” which annoys me for some reason. Some sort of executive decision needs to be made.

So, from here on out, I will refer to Toddler as Preschooler. Baby will remain Baby until she turns 18 months, and then she will be referred to as Toddler. All others will have aliases unless they grant me permission to use their real name.

I, of course, will always be referred to by my real name. As author of this blog, I believe readers deserve to know who I am.

Now, I must be off. Preschooler has removed the ham from her sandwich and is shouting “Hooray, hooray!!” while she waves the ham around like a flag.

Playing Favorites

Baby has been teething like mad for the last few weeks. She demands holding, followed by cuddling, followed by more holding. There is much screaming involved, sometimes between all parties involved.

Poor Toddler then gets lost in the shuffle. I can’t hold her as much, or cuddle with her as much, as I do Baby. There are times where she asks me pitifully, “Mommy, you want to play tea party?” or “Mommy, read me this story?” and I have to say, “I can’t, honey, I have to hold Baby. She doesn’t feel good.”

And then my heart breaks for Toddler, because this isn’t her fault. And a part of me resents Baby for making me feel this way. I don’t love Baby any less, I’m just so frustrated at the moment.

Conversely, there are times where Toddler is demanding and whiney. All day long it’s, “MOMMY, I WANT...,” “Moooooooommmmmmy,” tears, and tantrums, all while Baby plays quietly on the floor. And on those days I feel resentful towards Toddler. And again, I don’t love Toddler any less, I’m just so frustrated at the moment.

I try, oh how I try, to give each child as much individual attention as I can every day. But the amount of attention is never split 50-50, and sometimes it is incredibly lopsided.

Before Baby was born, I feared I could never love another child as much as I loved Toddler. That fear turned out not to be true. Now I fear one, or both, of my children will assume the other is the favorite, and forever resent me for it.

Will they know? Will they know how hard I tried? How even if I’m mad, or even if one temporarily needs me more than the other, that I always loved them both one-hundred percent?

Another Story About Fish

When I was in college, my dorm-mates and I peeled ourselves from our beds one Sunday morning, and headed to the girl’s bathroom where we were faced with fish.

Tens of goldfish were swimming around in the toilets. They’d swim through the pipes, popping up in random bowls.

We called in the RA in to assess the situation.

“Yup, those are goldfish,” she assessed.

We started discussing what to do. “Flush them” was the general consensus.

I’m no animal lover. I mean, I like animals, but not those with slime or scales, or those that eat bugs, or those with an instinct to burrow, or those with the word “naked” in their name, or those that breath fire.

But the thought of 40 goldfish being flushed as if they were sucked into the mighty craw of Charybdis, was just too much for me and for my roommate, who was an animal lover, and even liked animals with slime, or scales, or that ate bugs, or burrowed, or with the word “naked” in their name, or those that breathed fire.

“NOOOOOO!!!!!” we cried. “Don’t flush them!”

“Why not?”

“They’re alive!”

“Well, you figure out what to do with them.”

I borrowed a small plastic aquarium net from a guy who actually had a fish tank, and spent the next 3 hours carefully scooping fish out of the toilets and into various cups and bowls filled with water.

Finally, I found about 20 people willing to adopt a couple of toilet fish. My roommate and I each kept one as well. We named them Mr. Hanky and Michael Jackson.

Problem was, we didn’t have a fish bowl. We were able to find some fish food at a local Walgreens, but we couldn’t buy a fish bowl because there were no pet stores within walking distance.

We decided to wait until the next weekend to take a bus to a pet store. In the meantime we kept the fish in a plastic water pitcher. Hey, it’s better than the toilet, right?

Right?

For a few days all was well. Mr. Hanky and Michael Jackson swam around their new home, eating all the fish flakes they wanted. I think I saw Mr. Hanky smile and nod once.

But then we started noticing tiny bubbles...lots of tiny bubbles hanging around our fish, and in the water.

The next morning we were dismayed to find Michael Jackson laying on his side at the bottom of the pitcher. By that evening both fish were dead, and we were forced to flush them back down the toilet from whence they came.

I think I should just avoid live fish altogether. It always seems to end in disaster.

Side Effects Include Empathy...

“She must be off her meds...”

That phrase is uttered when some one (usually a woman) is irrationally angry, a narcissist, or a drama queen. It is said with a sneer. With contempt.

I’m not offended by the phrase. It is a joke, a colloquialism. It’s a means of expressing disdain for a person’s actions or attitude. It’s not personal.

But when I miss a dose of my medication for bipolar depression, here’s what I experience:

- Nausea. Think hangover. Think morning-sickness.

- Headache

- Flu-like body-aches

- Disturbingly vivid dreams that keep me from getting any restful sleep

- Anxiety and jitters

So when some one says “She must be off her meds...” I usually laugh. Chances are that person is just joking. Chances are the person of whom they speak is being irrational, or a narcissist, or a drama queen.

But part of me wonders if that person really is off her meds. And feels bad for them.

Zombie Fish

My first summer after college I worked as a ticket attendant and concessionaire at a county park. Mostly the job involved selling tickets in a booth at the entrance, but occasionally I’d get to leave the booth to sell chips, soda and candy bars at the concession stand, or to do menial maintenance jobs around the park.

This was a welcomed respite until the day all the fish died.

The park had a small lake with a beach area. The lake had fish. One day the fish all caught fish ebola or something, and died. The next day we were faced with hundreds of fish floating belly-up in the lake and washing up on shore.

The beach was closed for weeks while various state agencies tried to figure out why the fish died and whether it was safe to swim in the water. They took a few samples of dead fish, and came to the conclusion, “We don’t really know why the fish died, but it’s probably safe to swim. Have fun!”

This meant there were approximately 3902 dead fish to clean up off the shores of the lake. For 3 days straight I’d walk around the lake carrying a bucket and using a pair of garbage grabbers to place dead fish in the bucket.

Good times.

Now, I’ve never been fishing. So on one sojourn I noticed a fish quite close to shore. It wasn’t floating belly-up, but it definitely wasn’t moving. I figured it had only recently died, thrust the garbage pickers into the water, and pinched it by the tail.

The fish immediately wiggled around furiously trying to swim away. I had apparently caught a zombie fish by the tail. I panicked (OMG ZOMBIE FISH!!!), pulled it out of the water and put it in the bucket with the rest of the ex-fish.

The fish flopped around in the bucket and quickly attempted to evolve and grow lungs. Oops. It wasn’t dead, it was just resting.

I felt bad, but the deed was done. The next day the park re-opened to patrons and I spent the rest of the summer sitting in an booth the size of a broom closet, sans airconditioning, collecting money from people who were pissed off that they had to pay to park their car at a county park.

Really, Who Needs To Eat Anyhow?

One thing I hate about moving to a new state is adjusting to a different grocery store.

I arrived at Sentry with high hopes, and pride in my ability to actually do something responsible.

The first thing I did was obtain a cart. Naturally, Toddler spied one of those full-size carts with car at the end of it. This thing had the turning radius of a jumbo jet, and I think I ran down 5 elderly women trying to steer it.

This is a great idea! According to Satan.

After strapping Baby and Toddler into the Satan-mobile shopping cart, we headed towards the produce section. The store had a great selection of fruits and vegetables, but even after combing the aisles 3 times, I still couldn’t find any fresh herbs. I’m pretty certain some fraction of my soul is still wandering the store in search of fresh sage.

At the Deli counter, the clerk was kind enough to give me a taste-test of the ham I wanted to buy. But it wasn’t just a little piece; it was an entire slice. I gave some to Toddler, who likes ham. She ate it, but when I tried to pawn the rest of it off on her, she said, “No, thank you.”

So then I was facing the reality that I had an entire slice of ham on my person. It was good ham. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to throw it away in front of the clerk, but I also didn’t feel like downing all that ham at 10:00 am on a Monday morning.

I did what any reasonable person would do. I put the ham in my pocket.

Then, to my horror, I couldn’t find my favorite flavor of International Delight creamer. Seriously, I’ve checked about 3 different stores in my neck of the woods and they just don’t have it. Sure, they carry other flavors, but not Hershey’s Chocolate Caramel:

No, you can't have International Delight Hershey's Chocolate Caramel Coffee Creamer. Not yours.

Eventually I paid for my groceries, and we headed to the car. The grocery store was on the top of a small hill. There are not many hills in southwestern Ohio, so I didn’t really think of it when I left Baby in the Satan-mobile while I buckled Toddler in her seat.

The slight incline of the hill, plus the heavy load of groceries caused the cart to roll away WITH BABY STILL INSIDE IT. It was like a scene from a cheesy movie, except it was real life, and very little cheese was involved. I ran after the cart, and rescued it and Baby.

All this physical activity made me hungry, so we went to McDonald’s for lunch. Unfortunately, I was so disoriented that I forgot how a McDonald’s worked, and ordered as if I wasn’t 100% certain they would give me food.

Cashier: How can I help you today?

Me: Uhh...cheeseburger? Happy Meal?

Cashier: Ok, one cheeseburger happy meal. Anything else?

Me: ??? Ummm...cheeseburger? Fries?

Cashier: Anything to drink?

Me: Soda? Diet Coke? Do you have it back there?

Cashier: Actually, you fill it yourself over there.

Me: Over there???

Cashier: Yup! Your total is $7.59.

Me: *Blank stare*

I’m asking my family to try to subside on meager rations, but they don’t seem to be listening. Now I’ll have to go grocery shopping again next week. I can’t wait.