A Flash in the Pan

I have a house full of men.

They eat a lot.

And they're messy.

But that's okay.

I try to teach them independence and domesticity as best as I can. I tend to ‘over mother,’ as many would say, but we are all growing and spreading our wings together, which means I’m having to learn to ‘let go’ as well. Part of the growing also means testing what works and what doesn’t work individually and together as a family. What might work one day, might not work the next. We all have our limits, strengths and weaknesses – no one is the same – and when things aren’t working personally and/or in the domestic life-skills department, we try, try again.

So I try to keep my boys on track in the life-skills department as best as I can. Most important lesson: how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. I say that if all else fails in life, you can always make a grilled cheese and survive (don’t forget the ketchup!). So over time they have mastered the basic grilled cheese sandwich of buttered bread and cheese on a frying pan. No big deal. After a few burnt sandwiches, however, they learned the intricacies of minding the stove.

I’m not a gimmicky-type of person, always quick to get the ‘next big thing’ that comes out. I’m kind of old fashioned and sometimes stuck in the bubble I tend to keep myself in. Despite how adventurous I can be sometimes trying something new is a challenge. The good old ‘tried and true’ always feels most comfortable.

But in the spirit of fostering independence and broadening the horizons of my boys, a few years ago I decided to try something new. I know I can’t let my fears and inhibitions hold them back from venturing and adventuring out in this great big world, so I took a deep breath and was bold and brave:

I got a sandwich maker.

The sandwich maker was nothing super high-tech, but despite the simplicity of it I hoped to expand their menu options. This particular kind was an electric little grill that when filled and closed tight can make a little hot-pocket-like sandwich. Sure the boys were masters at making a grilled cheese sandwich with a frying pan, but I figured the gizmo would be a nice change for them. The actual sandwich content possibilities are a little more varied with the concept of a closed grill-like contraption, so I was excited at the notion of my boys trying new things. And the bottom line was no matter what they put in the sandwich they were making it themselves.

It started out fine with just a bit of a test-and-go-process in learning how it worked. It wasn’t a super industrial-strength grill you see in restaurants but it did have a built-in timer/sensor. When the indicator light goes on once it has warmed up, you load it with your yummy to-be-grilled sandwich, close it tight, then remove the gooey cheesy deliciousness when the indicator light says it’s ready. Simple. And ‘simple’ was good to start with given we were modernizing ourselves way from the boring old frying pan.

But then the problems started.

We soon learned that cheese cut any thicker than razor-thin slices was bad. Sure the cheese would melt, but it would also ooze out the sandwich and down the sides and back hinges of the machine. Like ALOT. I know there are far worse tragedies in this world than mis-managed melted cheese, but this truly WAS an atrocity. The challenge to clean, never mind the challenge of getting my men to actually CLEAN the sandwich maker properly was - to put it nicely - a CHALLENGE. No matter how much I fussed and scraped, and no matter how many toothpicks or tines of a fork I used to get into the tiniest of nooks and crannies, none of us could get out all the caked on melted cheese. And it’s not like the maker is something you soak in a sink of hot soapy water, either. Upping how much I nagged my men to clean it wasn't going to help, either. And it's not that I'm an over-picky neat freak, either, but this BAD.

Added to all that misery, the sandwiches were kind of soggy.

But I fought to brush off the disappointment and kept a positive perspective: we were modernizing and experimenting and getting away from the boring old-fashioned.

Eventually the novelty of the sandwich maker wore off and it sat on the counter unused. I know now that denial prevented me from trying to understand WHY it sat there unused, and so for what I excused as 'space reasons' I stored it away in the cupboard.

Time heals all wounds and all that, and the frying pan was getting a workout anyways so all was well in our world.

Until recently while cleaning and re-arranging the cupboards I found the sandwich maker.

The memory of the stress of it all had faded over time

Maybe we weren’t using it right, I reasoned: out came the instruction book.
Maybe it was harder to use than I thought: bring on Google.
Maybe we were putting on too much cheese between the bread: try UBER-razor-thin slices. But that means boring, nearly just-bread sandwiches.

So for two days we tried the machine again, but it was two days of frustration and disappointment…and soggy sandwiches. I'm not about to knock any brand name, nor dismiss sandwich makers entirely, and maybe we were simply using it wrong, but this was just...wrong.

But none of that mattered because right then I realized that the fight was over. The sandwich maker thought it had won – but its’ victory was backfiring on itself.

Because no matter how hi-tech this particular sandwich maker thought it was, at the end of the day it had lost the battle to the frying pan.

Sometimes nothing beats the good old tried ‘n true. Sometimes all the modernizing in the world is not for the best and we have to stick with the basics. I have to keep teaching my kids the basics – keeping them grounded by knowing the root of it all – if they are going to get by. Technology will always change, and yes, there definitely IS a place for some gizmos and modern hi-tech appliances in our lives.

But at the end of the day when all else fails and the gizmos-of-the-day promising to save you from yourself have let you down, go have a crispy, oozy-cheesy grilled cheese...made on a frying pan.

And stick with the old tried 'n true because sometimes anything else is simply….a flash in the pan.

Adult Colouring - Maybe It's Not For Me.... (part 1)

For the first time in just over 35 years, I have one - and my how they’ve changed!

But these days I now need reading glasses to use one, my youthful near-20/20 vision gone. And I don’t go outside the lines provided I have my reading glasses on – most of the time. On the odd occasion I DO gone outside the lines - a slip of the hand from too much caffeine or a nod-off too late in the night after too long a day at work - my peri-menopausal hormones practically send me into a crying fit, something resembling a toddler-like tantrum. Sort of.

So what is it?

It’s a colouring book.

No Little Red Riding Hood, Bugs Bunny or Mickey Mouse pages for me, however fun those might be. This is what is called these days as an ‘adult’ colouring book.

My first colouring book as a 40-something is Johanna Basford’s ‘Enchanted Forest.’ It’s the follow-up book to her worldwide bestseller, ‘Secret Garden,’ which was sold-out EVERYWHERE when I initially got wind of the pencil-crayon phenomenon a few weeks ago. Both books feature whimsical, charming black-and-white drawings just waiting to be coloured. Colouring for adults has long been reputed as a de-stressing activity, many adult-type colouring books featuring black and white zen-like mandalas having been around for years.

But when needing to fulfill the creative urge, and wanting to break-out of the repetitive, yet soothing, way of the mandala, these new colouring books (along with many others) have taken the publishing world – and suppliers of felts and pencil crayons – by storm.

And I’ve gotten caught up in that storm.

And I love it.

I’m a ‘creative’ so doing something like this isn’t new to me. I used to do a lot of scrapbooking and card-making which lead to ink stamping with shading and colouring-in of the stamped images. But I am no artiste. Colouring is for everyone; anyone can do it. If you can scribble, if you like adding colour to your life and, then the new-wave of colouring is for you.

But when I came home with my first colouring book a few weeks ago excited with my purchase, and confident in my colouring ability, closer inspection of the colouring pages sent me in to a panic.

There’s a lot of detail, big and small, I thought with a gulp as I browsed through the book that first night while curled up on the couch. And there’s only one of the design in the whole book! If I mess up, THAT’S IT!

What had I gotten myself into? I tried not to cry. I thought colouring was supposed to be de-stressing, not STRESS inducing!

I never thought I would associate the word ‘intimidating’ with a colouring book….

But I was excited AND curious! I was in need of something de-stressing. I was eager for a new creative outlet (like I needed another one!). I had been in a creative slump lately, detrimental to a writer, and was looking for some new action - but between the pages of a different kind of book.

I could do this! I told myself. It’s JUST colouring!

So after taking a deep calming breath which is weird in itself given I was about to DO something calming, I picked through the zillions of old pencil crayons from my kid’s school leftovers eager for a few semi-sharp ones. Our pencil sharpener at home is awful, and I knew the one at work would do a better job. I would have to wait until the next day when I could sharpen them.
Okay, I thought. No problem. I was just in a ‘testing’ phase, anyways. (Yes, I am well aware I over-think things).

I swallowed my panic, opted for a least intricate design, and got busy with the few decently-sharp pencil crayons.

The reading glasses were on, the tongue was poised outside the corner of my mouth, the couch was at it comfiest, and I was colouring! What more could a girl ask for?

And then I went out of the lines – not once, but twice. I had to slow down – I had to calm down. And I had to remember it was OKAY to screw up – pencil crayons DO erase (but not felt, as I had learned). As I coloured – as I screwed up – I had to keep in mind this colouring page was ONLY for me. My intention wasn’t to frame any finished pieces – unless I wanted to. This was just supposed to be a relaxing venture – a calming activity.

But then I got so stressed out with my dull pencil crayons I had to stop and wait until the next day when I could sharpen them at work. It was getting to be too stressful colouring with dull ones.

So the next day I loaded up my BIG BAGGIE of pencil crayons, brought them to work, and got busy sharpening with one of those old-fashioned hand-crank sharpeners. Those hand-crank sharpeners are the best – truly, they are. But I had A LOT of pencil crayons, you see, which meant A LOT of cranking, turning, cranking, and turning.

Well, that didn’t work out as planned, either.

If you have read any of my previous posts you will see I have also taken up archery. Yes, I am a woman of the world.

But as I am relatively new in the sport of archery, my muscles - at least, the ones I have started growing in my arms since taking up the sport – are tender, sore, and easily tire. I have to baby them, you see, and take care of my precious arms for not only writing, but archery. My muscles ARE getting better, but so conscious am I of my archery-needed arms and their constantly sore muscles, that manually sharpening a zillion pencil crayons with a hand-crank sharpener with my ever-sore, bow-holding arm proved to be a bit taxing. Not only did my arm tire all-too-soon into my sharpening task, but I remembered that I had practice that night and couldn’t bear the thought of wrecking my important archery arm by over-sharpening.

I started to worry: would I have to eventually choose between archery, colouring and – GASP - writing to preserve my arm?
So stressed-out and concerned about my arm I became I took to the task in increments: sharpening a few – resting; sharpening a few more – resting; sharpening a few more – resting.

But what about my new colouring thing? I wailed. I had to get these sharpened! I moaned as I accidentally stabbed myself with a sharp tip.

Now before you start to think I’m a lazy lout at work, I did this all BEFORE my shift.

Finally done, all while pretending to have downed a few Valium to get through the stressful task, I was content with the fact that not only would I be able to colour, but my bow-arm would go on to shot another arrow. I would live to write another word.

But then...

I immediately realized because of archery practice later that night, which goes relatively late, I wouldn’t have time to do any colouring that night, after all.

My shoulders slumped.

That’s fine, I figured. I needed to give my archery/colouring arm a rest, anyways. A little de-stressing time away from the colouring would do me a world of good, I figured.

I have enough stress with archery, as is (and that’s another story in itself).

Finally, the NEXT night came around, and I was free to do all the colouring I wanted.

And then everything changed.....

(stay tuned for part 2)

Thanks for reading!
Lisa

My First Time

2014 was a year of firsts for me: first novel published (‘Newbie Nick’, Lycaon Press), first time meeting a wing-walker (Carol Pilon, my inspiration for being bold, brave, and fearless), and first time shooting an arrow from a bow (thanks to my pals Bradley and Matthew). Although I’m still writing, yet haven’t taken-up wing-walking (I said yet), the archery thing kind of ‘took,’ so for Christmas Santa was kind enough to bring me a recurve archery bow.

And so 2015 has continued with the theme of ‘firsts’…

My husband and I joined the Victoria Bowmen Association, an archery group that my son has been involved with for the last few years. He has won, or placed, in numerous tournaments and continues to excel in the sport, impressing me with every arrow shot. I love watching him and will always cheer him on, but I guess something had been itching inside of me all along to try it. It was an itch I had to scratch, and my dabbling in the sport became something more. My practices became an escape, a challenge and an adventure. Archery was something I had never done before; had never entertained even doing before. I had no aspirations other than just enjoying it.

Then I did something I never dreamed I would do – compete.

As in be in a competition – a tournament.

My son had signed up for a yearly tournament called the MICA – Multi-sites Indoor Championship of the Americas. All archery clubs throughout North and South America host their own tournaments between January and April, and at the end all of the competitors in all the Americas are ranked.

All clubs host the same tournament - 60 arrows are shot from a distance of 18m at a 40cm target. What’s that you ask? Per round, or ‘end,’ three arrows are shot at a target 40cm wide at a distance of 18m away from the archer. So after 20 ends of 3 arrows each – the scores ranging from a 10 (that’s the center yellow) to a 1 (that’s the white outer last ring) – there’s a potential to get 600 points (for the ‘perfect’ archer, of course). (I’m new at this, so any errors in exact description are mine – but that’s the gist of it)

When I realized the tournament was exactly what I had been practicing with anyways (distance and target size) I figured what the heck?

I didn’t tell my husband or my son my intentions. Only the tournament registrar knew – and he knew my apprehensive, amateur, newbie fears. I’m a writer, after all, not a sporty kinda gal – and definitely not an ‘archer.’ I’m just a mom who, at 40-something years old, learned she kinda likes shooting arrows at a target. But I didn’t tell either of my men about my competitive intentions because a/in case I chickened out, b/I didn’t want them putting pressure on me by bugging me about it, and c/in case I chickened out. This was new, fragile territory for me – I didn’t want anyone, or anything, messing with my first time.

But at T-minus 2 days before the tournament, I told them. I realized I didn’t want to surprise the young lad at the last minute with my intentions. I was worried that the novelty and presence of his mother competing with him (not against him) would throw off his game. His tournaments are much more important to his long-term goals. Me, well, I’m just happy if I hit the damn target.

So when I told him I then quickly offered to withdraw if he felt awkward about his mother being in the tournament with him – because really, who wants their mother in something like that with them?
After they got over their surprise and shock, they both encouraged me. I assured my son I would make sure I would be nowhere near him and, in fact, I wouldn’t even look at him. When I was told “Don’t worry Mom, you’ll just be like one of the other guys” I knew I had his blessing and the rest was up to me.

But as fate would have it I got very sick that week, and my pre-tournament practices were horrendous. I wouldn’t learn until after the tournament that a sinus infection attempted to sideline my (Olympic) archery career. But sick or not, I was determined to participate.

The day before the tournament my son gave me some last minute tips that helped out my ‘game.’ I got myself in order, despite being so sick, and got my ‘mental game’ in check. Focus is huge in the sport – I wasn’t about to let some boogers bring me down.

So on the morning of my first archery tournament ever, where my son was calm, cool and collected, I was a wreck that managed to keep some semblance of calm and serenity displayed on the outside. Having wrapped my hair in the most perfect bun ever sure helped.

Once we registered at the tournament we got our archery gear in order and then had the chance to practice for 45 minutes before the start. I worked hard at ignoring how sick I was and I focused on my practice (and did very well). I kept my jangled nerves at bay and knew that anything valium-related, never mind cold-medicine-related, would only hinder my aim (and have me falling asleep at the shooting line).

But when it came time for the tournament to start my nerves got the better of me and a sweaty hand was responsible for the first 2 ‘ends’ to go askew. In archery even the slightest alteration in ‘grip,’ ‘release’ or ‘stance’ can throw off your shot. My ‘grip’ hand was so sweaty that it mucked up how I held the bow and my previously-practiced perfect shots went all over the place.

My confidence plummeted.

Once I figured out the issue, I concentrated on keeping my hand sweat-free. I kept my clogged/sore/sneeze-ready sinuses at bay, focused on everything I had learned to that point, and continued with the rest of the tournament – with whatever style and grace I could muster. I don’t think I breathed through the whole thing – I could barely, anyways. I was determined to not only finish the day, but finish it semi-un-embarrassingly. I still don’t know what drove me to even compete in the tournament in the first place, despite how ‘new’ I was to the sport. But nothing – no sickness, ailment, or overnight-loss-of-limb – was going to stop me from competing that day. I just wanted to try it – just once – even if I never did it again. There was a first time for everything, and I wasn’t about to let my first time be ruined by a mere sinus infection.

I managed to stay ‘in the yellow’ and ‘in the red’ for the most part, which is good. I finished with a score of 442 (out of 600). I did better than I had ever imagined and after it was over, even though I felt like crap and the next day DID get a prescription for some lovely antibiotics the size of horse pills, I knew…

I would never forget my first time (and I’d be going back for more).

For scores and additional photos, please click here.

Communication Clash

In early January of this year the Royal BC Museum, in conjunction with a week of ‘by donation’ entry, had a letter writing campaign – but not in that way.

By way of fostering the ‘lost art’ of letter writing, the museum set up a letter writing booth and invited patrons to engage in the ‘age old’ art of communication. Complete with writing paper and pens, patrons could write a letter – like an actual handwritten letter – and the museum would foot the bill for postage.

To back up a bit….

My friend Ros had seen an advertisement about the museum’s by-donation week as well as their letter writing booth in the newspaper. Ros is my friend who usually sends me out on various ‘assignments’ (see previous blog post called 'What Happened That Night'), so of course, at her instruction, I set out on another adventure. (To learn more about her romantic suspense fiction works, find her here)

As time is of the essence - my usual state-of-being - one afternoon during my lunch hour from work I hustled my way to the museum. I donated the few dollars I had in my wallet, and made a quick whip around the exhibits. I said a quick ‘hi’ to the woolly mammoth, sipped my lunch hour coffee while I chatted with some seals and sea lions, and then quickly made my way through the rest of the museum, stopping to look at the displays of days-gone-past in the ‘old town’ – I love the old typewriters and sewing machines.

As time was ticking, I still had one mission to accomplish – write a letter. I found the booth and at the encouragement of the kind girl working there, I found a spot at the table between two other women. I grabbed some paper and a pen from the supplies provided and got to work.

And it was hard work, I have to say! Not only did I have write neatly, but I had to think of something on the spot! Something meaningful – something with heart. Something interesting other than the usual ‘weather’ chit-chat (when in doubt, there’s always the weather).

Just when my letter-writing muse kicked into gear two more women arrived. Well, I have to admit, as much as I foster the fostering of anything – especially writing – I was rather put-out. It was MY time, I was in just getting in touch with MY muse, and there wasn’t a lot of space at the table. So I stifled a ‘huff,’ scooted over, and with an obligatory smile to everyone enjoying the getting-back-to-letter-writing moment, I kept my head down and got busy.

I had a letter to write, after all.

I met my friend Ros through a writing group and you’d think, given how we are ‘writers’ and all, that we would have seen each other’s handwriting. But in this technological age where email fosters friendships and a keyboard is a writer-girl’s best friend, I realized she had never seen my handwriting before.

And I was instantly embarrassed. I have atrocious handwriting. It’s a cacophony of half-printing and half-cursive writing, combined with an intricate code of self-created shorthand and abbreviations that half the time I can barely decipher. So I wrote/printed/scrawled as neatly as I could, all while acknowledging and apologizing to Ros for my crappy handwriting. The weather had already been talked about.

Just as my tongue had all-but dried out from being stuck out the corner of my mouth in concentration, someone ELSE arrived at the table. GEEZ! Can I NOT just WRITE a LETTER in PEACE!?!

Chit-chat among the letter writers ensued and suddenly I was eavesdropping - I had no choice.

But I was sure glad I did.

I dare not repeat another person’s story here, but a woman recounted her own family’s letter-writing story surrounding events in 1942 involving a highly recognized politician’s wife. It was during World War II – Europe and England were right smack in the middle of the war - and all is can say is her family owns a historic treasure.

Wow!

I am so glad I didn’t ‘shoo’ everyone away. What a treat to be able to hear the story I did!

After everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over the fantastic story – one I won’t ever forget – we all got back to work.

Just when pens-scratching-at-paper was the only thing to be heard, the museum worker broke our getting-back-to-basics moment by telling us she had an iPad, internet ready, in case anyone had to look up an address.

WHAT? What about the moment? What about getting-back-to-basics? How contradictory was an iPad to what we were actually doing! Talk about clash of the communication worlds!

My letter writing adventure was getting more and more introspective with every minute.

I finished recounting the World War II story in the letter to Ros then, upon realizing the time, took a few photos of my letter with my cell phone, bade them all ‘happy letter writing,’ and grabbed my purse and by-then cold coffee. As I made to leave, the museum worker pointed to a table on which to leave my mail. Sitting on top of the table was a museum-style display case showing old writing utensils. Cool!

It wasn’t until I took a few pictures - again with my cell phone - that I saw it. Sitting just beside the display case was a ‘modern’ ink pen.

Wow! When was the clash of the communication worlds going to end?

With the letter writing campaign just too much for me, I guzzled my cold coffee then hustled back to work for a much needed rest.

I’m a receptionist answering phones and forwarding mail for a living. Go figure.

My Favorite Skirt

Just a few short months ago (three, as of this writing) we were running around in our bikinis – those of who can, that is (not ME!). Summer was in full-swing with everyone in shorts and tank tops, some (like me) were complaining about the heat, and winter coats were collecting dust in our closets.

And all too soon, because ‘time flies’ and goes by faster than we can blink, those winter coats were dusted off and yanked out of hibernation. Old tissues found in the pockets from last year were thrown out, and the lucky who found a fiver in amongst all the tissues have already purchased a chill-chasing pumpkin spice latte.

Fall and winter is my thing – hot, sweltering summer months are not. By July I’m sick of all the sweating and I long – LONG – for the cool, crisp winter days when I can bundle up in my coat and scarf in the day, my favorite blanket bundled around me on the couch at night. I go through the same thing every summer – I can’t wait for my cool-weather winter clothes. I look forward to the fall fashion trends – in August I drool over catalogues featuring the latest wool-blend skirts, modern chunky/comfy sweaters, and functional yet fashionable knee-high boots.

But I’m no fashionista – comfort, functionality and affordability are my style. The nature of my day-job has me hopping – when I’m not running from floor-to-floor in an 11-storey building, I’m crawling under desks pretending to be a computer techie and untangling computer wires hoping I don’t unplug the ‘wrong’ one. So year-round ‘relaxed business attire’ works for me – black pants and a comfortable top. I dream of all the fancy fashions I would like to wear – one day – but for now, comfort and functionality are where it’s at. I’m a busy momma.

But this past summer, despite being pro-fall/winter, I decided to cut loose and take my chances with ‘change.’ I wore skirts and dresses almost every day. Time IS ticking by and one day I won’t be able to wear the knee-revealing skirts I can get away with wearing now. I was making a statement – what ‘statement’ I didn’t know – but I was going with the ‘enjoy it now’ attitude. Why save something ‘for that special day’ when that ‘special day’ might not come and I never get to use it/wear it/enjoy it? (footnote – wearing skirts and dresses this past summer proved to be not the wisest choice when I tripped and twisted my ankle right in the middle of downtown Victoria giving everyone a ‘free show’ (if you know what I mean) and scrapping both knees so bad that my panty-hose had be chiselled out of the gashes in my knees. Gross, but true).

So given my job and my busy lifestyle any ‘girly clothes’ I choose to wear have to be comfortable, easy-to-wear, and fidget/fuss/adjustment-free (if you’re a girl, you’ll know what I mean.)

While on my ‘summer-quest for girly-clothes,’ I found the perfect Lisa-friendly skirt – a ‘skort.’ For you non-fashion folks, a ‘skort’ is a skirt with a pair of shorts attached underneath. And you know what that meant for busy, non-fashionista, non-fussing Lisa? (It’s about to get graphic here, folks!) It meant I didn’t have to wear a slip because of the built-in shorts underneath. It was just a pull-on skirt – no buckles or buttons, no tucking or adjusting. It was like wearing shorts every day to work and I didn’t have to worry about flashing anyone while a/falling down in the middle of a downtown Victoria sidewalk, or b/while crawling around under desks.

I loved it – LOVED IT. I loved it so much that I – GASP – sometimes wore it twice a week! I went in search of another four just exactly like it but in different colours/patterns/fabrics. But alas no others were to be found, and I had to settle for waiting all week when I could wear it.

But just when I got used to being really ‘girly’ the weather turned cold, and frost-bite on my legs wasn’t working for me. My long-awaited fall/winter clothes/coats were pulled out of the closet, and my favorite skirt is holding their spot in the closet – until next year. I’m happy it’s cool and brisk these days, but oh how I am missing my favorite skirt. Only seven months, weather-dependent, until I can wear it again.

Unlike those winter coats, my favorite skirt I can only hope and pray still fits next year has no pockets. Sadly, I won’t be finding any fivers.

Thanks for reading!

Lisa

Karma, Irony and Guilt - Lessons from a Spider

I’m usually up super early in the mornings to get in a power-walk and a bit of a writing session before work. Doing both, even if only for a bit and even when I don’t exactly feel like it, are a great start to get me energized and motivated for the day.

But one Monday morning when my alarm went off at its usual 3:30am wake-up call, I ‘gently’ turned off the alarm then rolled over and resumed dreaming about all things writerly. I decided to skip the walk but still get in a bit of writing as I rationalized I had been SUPER busy all weekend running around doing chores. I figured a day of rest wouldn’t hurt and allowed myself a ‘sleep-in’ until 5 am.

A little while later with my ‘sleep-in’ over and me sort of awake and dressed, I dragged my sorry self upstairs to my bathroom. Squinting against the bright bathroom light, I threw a facecloth in the sink and just as I was about to turn on the tap……

THERE IT WAS.

The biggest most horrendous house spider I have EVER seen in my life.

At first I thought it was one of my sons’ tarantulas. I’m not scared of his ‘pets’ but I was more concerned that the typically caged creatures had the potential of escape, never to be found again. He would be devastated if it ever happened – perfectly understandable. Closer inspection, however, revealed it was NOT one of his beloved darlings.

But then it moved and THAT, my dear readers, meant WAR.

Now before I continue with what happened next you should know that I truly DO love all creatures great and small. I truly didn’t wish to harm him/her. I just wanted him/her GONE.

So I whipped out my hair dryer and readied for battle.

Why a hair dryer you say? Well, because I had to blow that guy back down the drain from where he came, of course!

It would occur to me later that, in theory and technically speaking, it IS impossible for spiders to come up through a drain.

Right?

But I didn’t have time to worry about technicalities right then because when he took a few steps, I sprung in to action. My sole goal was to blow him down the drain, but I didn’t anticipate what blowing air does in a round, smooth sink. It spins things around like in a tornado, taking everything with it. So, of course, around and around went the spider. When I stopped for a split second to reassess my plan of attack he started running. Can you blame him? I would too!
I panicked some more then redirected my hair dryer to blow the air in a different angle – a better approach sure to direct him down the drain. Around and around the sink we chased each other and then….

…one wrong tilt of the hairdryer had the tornado blowing the poor defenseless spider up and out of the sink, through the air, and right at ME!

I screamed, yelled, squealed and all but begged for mercy from him, from God, from the Universe and from every deity possible. I twisted my already compromised ankle and pulled my already compromised back in my desperate attempt to get out of his way. He was after ME!

Luckily for both of us he landed on the bathmat. While he sat catching his breath on the mat, I kept my hair dryer trained on him like a Glock and stayed out of full range from his potential attack. Before I could whip out my bazooka, footsteps bounded and echoed up the stairs.

My dearest husband was roused from his slumber by my…antics…and had come to the rescue. He knew right away, before even getting near, what it was.

“Is it a spider?” He calmly – CALMLY – asked before he even rounded the corner. (I still don’t get how ANYONE could be CALM at a time like that!)

“IS IT A SPIDER?” I dared not take my eyes off the poor innocent offending creature as I challenged my husband’s silly question. “THIS is NOT a spider!” I spat. “This is….THIS IS….” I couldn’t continue.

And so he picked it up by his hands – by his BARE HANDS, I tell you – and carried the poor offending creature outside. I kept my Glock, I mean my hairdryer, trained on both of them, just in case. What if the spider bit my dear question-asking husband turning him all zombie-like? (This is the imagination of a writer, no matter what time of day).

And that was the end of that. My husband went back to bed without a second glance and I was left wishing I had a personal defibrillation unit.

As I finished getting ready for work (I had a bad hair day after that, and rightly so) I felt dumb. And guilty. And dumb. And guilty. Not only because of the way I OVERreacted about a defenseless creature that was a gazillion times smaller than me but also because, um, there are three tarantulas and two scorpions in residence one floor below my office/bathroom. Talk about irony.

I wondered if the spider showing up in my sink was Karma’s way of getting back at me for not getting up and out for my daily routine. But Karma had much more in stock for me. The guilt weighing me down for days after for taking a hairdryer to a poor defenseless creature was worse. Whether that’s considered Karma or not, I had that guilt comin’ to me. It was only fair – and truly deserved.

So at 5 o’clock on a Monday morning I had had lessons in Karma, irony and guilt, all rolled up into one tornado-like mess. All thanks to an eight-legged creature no bigger than the circumference of the end of my hairdryer.

And I as I write this, I realize now that the real irony was how I felt more guilty about the spider than for my husband having to bolt out of bed at that early hour.

(PS. I never wrote a single word that morning)

Thanks for reading!

Lisa