Spiders

I was traumatized by a spider when I was about eight years old.

My mother left me home alone for about ten minutes while she picked my little sister up from school.  I spent over a year in bed after I was diagnosed with Rheumatic Fever when I that age.  I was not supposed to walk and I very seldom left my bed. 

Before you think "oh that was so sad", it really wasn't.  I got to read to my heart's content.  I had a home teacher.  And I was seriously catered to because I was sick.  My parents carried me to the bathroom, gave me bed baths and brought all my meals to me on trays.  It was not a bad way to spend a year and a half.  It even gave me an idea that I might like to become an invalid wife one day, but that's another story.

My mother had no sooner left the house until I put down my book and thought about taking a little nap.  I closed my eyes and fell asleep for about 5 minutes and I felt something on my face.  I opened my eyes and there was a spider hanging from a long skinny thread of silk almost touching my nose.  I screamed bloody murder and covered my head with the sheet.  By the time my mom got back with my sister, I was in hysterics.  To make matters worse, the big black spider had completely disappeared.  I knew he or she was someplace hiding and would come out after the lights were off and "get" me. 

Mom letting me read "Charlottes's Web" did nothing to reduce my horror of those eight-legged freaks.  In fact, over the years, my phobia increased.  Numerous times I telephoned my husband at work and told him he had to come home because there was a spider in the bedroom.  I could not walk into a room with a spider no matter what.  I would have left my baby in his crib crying hour after hour if I had seen a spider in the room.  If my husband was not able to come home, I would call a neighbor to come and help me.  (Help me?  No, actually, I just wanted that spider dead but I could not get close enough to one to kill it.)  When nobody was available at all, I would resort to hair spray, perfume, spray starch, furniture polish and anything else I could spray across the room at the damn thing.   I found that none of those things actually killed spiders, but they did smell pretty good after being sprayed and they even looked shiny.  You see,while couldn't walk into a room with a spider, I couldn't walk away from a room with a spider either.  (I knew they would just hide and then bite me later.)  (Thank God for long telephone cords.)

This irrational terror of mine continued until after my marriage to Alex.  We were in Arizona visiting his parents when I saw a huge "wolf spider" on the wall in the hallway outside of the guest bedroom.  I shrieked bloody murder and Alex came running to see if I was hurt.  I pointed to the spider and he said "Oh.  What do you want me to do?".  I replied through clenched teeth that I wanted that spider dead.  He left me while he went to look for execution materials.  He was gone about a half an hour.  When he came back with a magazine, a sponge, a bottle of cleanser, he asked me if I was sure I wanted it dead.  Of course I was sure..  With a loud slam, the spider was smeared all over the hallway wall.  Alex shook his head as he sadly cleaned up the spider's remains.

Alex's parents were horrified when I told them what had happened.  That spider (name of Humphrey) had been with them for about 15 years.  It even moved with them when they bought a new house.  All three sets (Alex, his mom, and his dad) of black eyes gazed mournfully at me as they asked for a description of the spider.  We had indeed killed their spider friend Humphrey.  I felt terrible.

Native Americans don't kill spiders.  But I learned something that day.  I had forced Alex to take a life and he was very upset over it.  Hell, by this time, I was upset over it and feeling really bad about poor Humphrey.  Shoot, he may have even had a family.  And he did have kind of nice gentle eyes actually.

That was the last spider that ever died because of me.  Now I use a clear plastic cup, slide a postcard across to trap the critter and escort it gently out into the garden.  Spiders love it there.  Lots of food, water, and a safe haven to live out their little spider lives.  I even got to see a spider "hatch" when about 300 gorgeous little golden babies tossed out their silk ropes and  flew off to do whatever it is that spiders do.  They were about the size the head of a pin.

It's good to not be terrified of them any more.  But I'm still not inviting them in for a sleep over even if it's raining.

Behind The Wheel

This is my husband Alex.

Before we go someplace, there are a lot of things that have to be done.  Alex has his walkie talkies, his GPS, his Blue Tooth, his compass, his cell phone, and his emergency medical kit.  We also carry blankets, detailed maps of Northern California and Southern California, 2 gallons of water, a knife, road flares, his clean underwear, a flashlight, power bars, batteries, water-proof matches, a solar powered radio, and a small propane stove with a pan.  This is for a trip to go five blocks to the market.

The GPS tells us where to turn.  It's five blocks away, Alex.  We could have walked it very safely and easily.  The only reason we are taking the car is so we don't have to carry 10 bags of groceries home from the store. 

I know how to go five blocks and not get lost, not get cold enough to need a blanket, and not to die of thirst.  It's not likely Alex is going to change underwear either.    We carry this junk in all three cars so that we are always prepared.

Alex does not like to leave things to chance.  One wrong turn can really be a problem.  Perhaps we'll get lost somewhere and have to kill a bear and cook it in that little pan on the propane stove.  Alameda has no bears.  We do have raccoons, turtles, rats, wild turkeys, and squirrels though.  I guess Alex could kill one of those little animals with his knife and then we could cook that.  (Actually, I'd rather just nibble on the fruit hanging from the trees, but that's me.)

It seems like this would be a very safe way to travel.  Unfortunately, that's not the case.  Alex perhaps has the worst sense of direction of anyone I know.  Or, he's just so caught up in the gadgetry that he gets lost all the time.  He frequently tells me we are taking a "Navajo shortcut".  These Navajo shortcuts without fail tack on an extra 90 minutes to any trip we take.

People give Alex detailed directions to places and he acts like he's paying attention, but he's not.  He just makes the appropriate noises and tunes the people out.

I sometimes suggest that pulling in at a service station and asking directions might be a grand idea.  Alex treats this suggestion with exasperation.  It's not going to happen.  We are going to use the GPS, the maps, the compass, and drink some of that damn water until we figure it out.  We will park and take deep breaths to get our bearings before continuing on.

I never get lost.  I hate gadgets. 

"The Message" - They Played My Song

Don't push me cause I'm close to the edge
I'm trying not to lose my head

It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder  
How I keep from going under  
It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder  
How I keep from going under

Grandmaster Flash
Courtesy: Getty Images

(That's how I feel most days.  Just don't push me and I'll be fine.  And so will you.)

Roadblocks

Yes.  That is our green recycle trash can.

Wednesdays are garbage eve.  Alex takes all three of our trash cans out to the street.  We have a blue can for paper and plastic. metal and glass, a grey can for "garbage/garbage", and the green can for clippings, food, etc.

Alex carefully arranges the cans at the curb in front of our house.  He puts them in a row, not too close to each other so that the garbage truck can use the mechanical arm to grab the cans.

Thursdays are garbage days in our neighborhood.  I watch out my window from behind the lace curtain as my neighbor does his weekly thing of going through our garbage and moving the trash cans into totally different locations.  He finds a piece of paper in the green can and he quickly re-assigns it to the blue can.  He decides that a piece of cloth does not belong in the blue can so he relegates it to the grey (garbage/garbage) can.

I watch him for 15 or 20 minutes in total amazement as he goes through his ritual.  In every other way, this is a normal acting man.  Sometimes I call Alex at the office and say "Guess what he's doing?" and Alex will laugh because he knows exactly who "he" is, and exactly "what" he is doing.

Part of me enjoys watching this ridiculous activity, but part of me is annoyed.  What if I threw something "unmentionable" into the trash?  What if there were broken sex toys in there?  What if I threw naked pictures of us in the trash?  What if I threw the prescription bottle for the anti-psychotics in the trash?  See my point?

You may know, but once you move your trash to the street for pick up, you have no legal "expectation of privacy".  For any of you criminals who may be reading this, that means the cops, the DEA, the CIA, and the FBI do not need a search warrant.  You might want to keep this in mind if you throw out trash that links you to nefarious deeds.

The worst part is, my neighbor leaves for work after Alex, and he gets home before Alex.  After the trash is emptied, my neighbor lines up all three of our cans right in front of our driveway so that we can't get a car in or out of the driveway without moving the cans.

I don't like handling trash cans.  I don't like looking at trash either.  We've been here for over ten years.  I expect my neighbor knows us a lot better than we know him by now.

My daughter thinks our neighbor man is a spy.  I think he's more of a recycle OCD type.

Fried Cheese Balls

When I think of cheese, I think of a lovely Stilton, British Blue from England.  Or perhaps a ripe triple creme Brie from France.  Or perhaps a Molitaire Tartuffo like shown in the photo.

The Molitaire Tartuffo, a sheep milk cheese, is veined with truffles.  

I dream of Holland's Boerenkaas, nutty and sharp!  I love the Basque Petit Agour from France.  Good old American Cheddar is fine too.  Stanser Sahaffase is a fine Swiss cheese and very delicious!

What I have never considered is fried cheese balls.  Just the name 'Fried Cheese Balls" makes me gag.  We recently went to dinner with some close friends and they both went into rapture at "Pimento Cheese Croquettes" on the menu.  My mother used to make Salmon Croquettes using corn flakes to hold together the canned salmon.  These balls were then fried in Crisco to a golden brown with warm canned salmon inside them.  Come to think of it, Mom also made a tuna casserole with corn flakes on top too.

Mom used to buy jars of pimento cheese too and use it to spread on crackers.  I'm not really sure what the orange stuff was, but I doubt it was cheese.  Perhaps it was a cheese flavored product.  She also spread the pimento cheese on celery for a healthy snack.  No wonder I was a skinny kid.

My friends indeed ordered the "Pimento Cheese Croquettes" and I had trouble looking at them when they arrived at the table.  The croquettes sat in a pool of red jelly and they were topped with a little circle of green pepper.  They pronounced them "delicious" and devoured them while I carefully averted my eyes.

Those were bloody brown fried cheese balls.  You can't fool me.

Fools Rush In

I've decided to participate in Nicky and Mikes (We Work For Cheese)  brilliant idea of writing a post every day for 30 days beginning on June 1, 2012. There are NO RULES so that means I have no directions to follow.  For me, that's the major thing as I am hopeless at following directions.

Nicky and Mike and are providing "prompts".  (Surprisingly, the first prompt is "Cheese".)  I don't know why I thought this would be a fun thing to do.  The only reason I'm playing is because I love Nicky and want her to come and live with me and be my sister wife.  This way she has to pay attention to me.

I have almost convinced Nicky to come to visit me with her baby in the near future.  I'm hoping my efforts here help to solidify her decision.  Once she gets here and we start buying shoes, she'll never want to go back home.

The other participants are:  CheesyMike, Cheryl, If I Were God, Katherine, Bryan, Laughing Mom,  Malisa, MikeWJ,  NoNameDufus, Jayne,  and Sandra. Every one of these writers is very good and will do a better job of this than I will.

I may even quit after the first post.  For that matter, I may quit before the first post.

What the hell can one really write about "Cheese"?

Bedroom Tales

I had a friend named Sarah Cohen when I was in high school.

Sometimes Sarah and I had sleepovers at each others houses.  Since Sarah was an only child, I preferred going to her house, and not being saddled with my three younger siblings.

Sarah and her parents lived in a lovely home in a much more upscale area then my humble abode.  Our sleepovers frequently occurred on Saturday night.  Sarah's mom, Rachel, was a nice lady with blond bouffant hair.  Rachel's  sister, Norma, lived with them and the sisters looked enough alike to be twins, but they weren't.

On Sunday mornings,Sarah and I would go into her parents bedroom to say good morning.  Mr. Cohen, Mrs. Cohen and Norma would all be lying in the same bed, propped up on pillows, reading the NY Times.  All three of them wore reading glasses, but the blond ladies looked really funny side by side in their high necked nightgowns.

I'm guessing this was a bit strange, but it seemed sort of normal after you see it a few times.

When my grandchildren, Cyrus and Arianna, were young they would frequently spend the night with us.  We would put Cy and Ari in between us, and still have room for Mitch (our dog) and Smokey (our cat).  Smokey was the only one who didn't snore.

I spent the night between two sailors years ago when my husband was deployed someplace.  My only television was in our bedroom, and the only comfortable place to watch it was on the bed.  We fell asleep.  One of the men was my husband's best friend and a good friend of mine too.  These sailors understood sleeping with Alex's wife was really not that big a deal.

We had dinner the other night with Traci and Flavia.  Flavia is looking for a job before the start of her Masters Program ,but if she doesn't get one, they may have to come and live with us.  Flavia laughed delightfully as we talked about it and told us that they would bring their king size bed so we can all sleep together with all the pets.  That would be something to see.  Traci and Flavia have 3 dogs, and 2 cats.  Alex and I have two dogs.  That would make 5 dogs and two cats and four people. 

It sort of made me think about the movie "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory".  Charlie's whole family slept in one bed I think and there were a bunch of them.