Thursday, October 13, 2011

Do NOT Pick Up the Plunger

See that picture? See how cute and trustworthy that darling spider is? Couldn't you just needlepoint that on a pillow and display it proudly on your couch for Halloween? Precious, isn't it? Well I'll tell you what.

Fricking. False. Advertising.

You want to know the truth about spiders? Oh, I'll tell you. But first, a story. A couple weeks ago I went into the bathroom with a sense of peace about me, one with the universe, doing just fine. As I pass the toilet on the way to the mirror, something on the floor next to toilet catches my eye. I glance down, figuring that it's a clump of dog hair or one of my hair elastics. No. It's a FREAKING GINORMOUS SPIDER. Just sitting there, cozied up against the wall, not even moving.

I froze, so as not to startle the cute little thing before I could call for help and kill the darling. One problem: It was at least after 10 at night, and Sammy was asleep. And Pete was in our room with the door closed. That's two closed doors and half the hall between me and him, and one wall between me and the sleeping child.

Dilemma. Because, as everyone knows, Standard Spider Protocol, or SSP, states that once you spot an unwelcome eight-legged guest on your premises, you DO NOT LOOK AWAY. Seriously. Because the second you do, that sucker will disappear. Sure, you might find it again in a minute, but that is not the nightmare that keeps you up late at night freaking out because you've got a case of the creepy-crawlies and a bug loose in your room. So, rule of thumb in the SSP, DO NOT LOOK AWAY once you find the spider.

Well, guess what. I looked away.

What was I supposed to do?! I couldn't yell for help, I didn't have my phone, and I was barefoot (AKA, no way to kill the freakishly large arachnid). I did try kind of quietly screeching for help, but that didn't work out and the spider twitched. We weren't doing that again. So yeah, upon close scrutiny and making sure the spider was not moving, I opened the door, poked my head out into the hall, and yelled for the John McClane of the spider world, my husband (ask me about his other Die Hard spider moment. It ROCKS!). I went back across the bathroom to where I'd been before, checked on the immobile spider, and guess what.

It was gone.

Poof, disappeared. I had been looking away for maybe 3 seconds, tops. Well, spider didn't need that long. So I'm standing there in my robe and bare feet, checking the floor and my feet and legs and robe and trying to find that &%$@$!& spider. Pete arrived in the doorway, armed with a shoe like the knight in shining armor stud that he is. So I, in my damsel in distress way that I have, pointed at the floor where the creepy thing had been hiding and said, "He was right there, but he moved."

There was a good deal of shoe action around the toilet (apparently spider had hidden behind the toilet where it was nice and dark and hard to get to), but the shoe was too big to get back there (Pete has quite large feet) so then there was toilet plunger action.

After a minute during which I just huddled in the corner and stayed out of the way, Pete stood up and I peeked over his shoulder hoping to see the squished remains of an epic battle on the floor.

"Did you get him?" "He's trapped under the plunger, and if the smell doesn't kill him, nothing will."

I was a little touchy about leaving it at that (what if he escaped?), but left it at that. No way he was going to get out from under the plunger (please don't get out from under the plunger), and either way he'd suffocate eventually. So I put it out of my mind.

May I remind the assembled that this was two weeks ago. Ok? Two weeks. During that time, once or twice I have toyed with the idea of lifting up the plunger just for the satisfaction of seeing a curled up spider carcass on the floor under it. But I didn't. Just in case. Because on the off chance that it was still alive (*shudder*), there was no way I was getting anywhere in the path of a spider that hadn't eaten anything in that long.

Today was the first time the plunger was needed (Sammy did it. Do not ask me how that girl plugged up the toilet because the scientific measurements of that just blow my mind), and I belatedly realized that the plunger was in use. So I checked the floor where it sits, and . . . nothing. I brushed it off, figuring that, seriously, two weeks. The thing was dead. It had probably just died trying to gasp a breath of air from under the edge of the plunger and stuck to the rubber.

So I'm vacuuming after dinner, making my way down the line of rooms, and I get into the bathroom. I'm vacuuming up all the dog hair off the floor, I go into the room to get the corner by the tub really good AND ON THE WALL RIGHT THERE ACROSS FROM THE TOILET IS A FRICKING HUGE SPIDER!!!

I did not panic. I was armed, and I sucked that puppy into my vacuum hose with a slightly maniacal smile of satisfaction. I also did not turn the vacuum off for a good 15 minutes. Good thing I still had Sammy's room and the rest of the hall to vacuum.

Which brings me back to the truth about spiders. Here it is: those buggers are immortal. There is no way, in a similar circumstance, that a human could survive in a big rubber dome for two weeks without food or water and likely no air. No way.

I'm sure some of you are rolling your eyes right now, thinking, "There's no proof that was the same spider." WELL YOU CAN JUST SUCK MY TOE, DUDE! It was totally the same spider! No dead spider carcass + spider sighting within two hours of previous trapping spot being opened = SAME FRICKING SPIDER.

It's a conspiracy. All you aracniphobics out there, listen up, because this is important. The spider population of the world that probably outnumbers us humans about a billion to one is breeding a new kind of super power spider. And they are planning on taking over the world, one bathroom at a time. Think I'm wrong? Exhibit A: Immortal Plunger Spider. I don't feel that I need more evidence to support this.

Now, I am going to distract myself for awhile. Listen to soothing music and do some relaxing breathing. While wearing shoes. With a fly swatter and a can of Raid in my hands. And a shotgun in easy reach. *Shivers with creepy-crawly sensation skittering all over my legs, keeps eyes peeled watching the perimeter*

Come to mama, freakies. Come to mama.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

I Can't Believe I'm Doing This . . .

No, really, I can't believe it. I am pimping myself out/advertising on my blog. Ok, so technically I've wondered about this for quite awhile now, and this is me pulling my balls together and finally doing it.

So, I have created another blog, under my same profile and all that jazz (at least, I think so, I'm still pretty much new at this whole blog thing). But on that one . . . *starts to blush and fidget* I am going to start putting up different selections of the writing I've done. *Mumbling to self that this looks extremely, shall we say, CAN I GET ANY MORE EGOTISTICAL THAN THIS?!?!*

In all actuality, I'm quite insecure about my writing, and if anyone is getting a different impression, it's just the other 85% of my online personality that is all fake swaggering bravado and a whole bunch of arrogant fluff that I like to imagine makes a more endearing picture of myself. At least, more endearing that the somewhat cute fat girl sitting on her bed with her jeans unbuttoned and her bedroom in shambles around her because she's spent all day doing what she loves (writing) instead of doing what she hates (cleaning).

Anyway, I'm going to shut up this fountain of verbal diarrhea before I embarrass myself further (it is actually possible). And just leave you with the address to my other blog ( and say good night!

*Slaps self for being a retard and wanders off while muttering to self about what to do about the collective idiocy in this brain*

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

A Word On Fries . . .

There is something magical about the French Fry. A potato, one of the world's most wonderful foods, from such is brought magic things like the chip, mashed potatoes, au gratin potatoes, and a whole host of other delicious things, can also be manipulated by a thread of genius and turned into a french fry. Slice that puppy up, deep fry it in oil, sprinkle with salt, and you have a food so glorious that you just know God loves us if He gave us such a miraculous edible.

There is really just one problem with this perfect food. And it is that, after about 15 minutes, a fry transforms from a hot, crispy, salty, mealy, wonderful snack . . . to a limp, soggy, cold, pasty mouthful of yuck. In a matter of minutes. It is astounding how fast this happens. Good to evil, just like that. And once they go evil, there is no bringing them back. You can't microwave cold fries and bring back their fabulousness, and why would you bother sticking them in the oven and hovering around it for up to 15 minutes trying not to burn them but trying to get them warm enough to tolerate? It's just not worth it. Not when you can just go back to McDonald's and get a whole 'nother box for less than two bucks.

Seriously, dogs won't even eat that stuff. I know, I have two of them living with me. Today, twice now, I have come to my room to find the contents of my garbage can spread all over the floor. The empty soda cups from Dairy Queen and McD's were licked clean, a couple tissues were ripped apart, the empty box which at some point last week encased a paper wrapped burger was torn apart and licked clean. But the bright red carton half full of cold McDonald's fries? It wasn't touched. The thing was not even tipped over!

Ok, we are talking two Labradors right now, these dogs routinely swipe food off the counters, Sammy's plate, and the garbage when they believe they are hungry enough (they really aren't), but they didn't touch half a carton of cold fries! I was a little astounded (when we say astounded, I mean I sat there with a handful of damp dog-chewed tissues for a solid ten seconds with my mouth hanging open) until I remembered the occasions when I have been silly enough to give cold fries a try. Gag me.

It is fascinating to me the shocking difference that only five minutes of room temperature can make on fries. Such manna from heaven, turned vomitious. It's so sad. I mean, chocolate doesn't go bad. You can unearth a bag of Hershey's Kisses form your cupboard left over from last Halloween (or even the one before that) and eat them with a smile on your face. It's so bizarre.

Anyway, thank you for reading tonight's episode of "Junk Food Theater". We hope you join us next time, best wishes and good night.