Brown Spider: A Hate Story

“There’s a spider in the car, Mama,” comes a little voice from the back seat.

It was a calm statement. One of interest more than anything else, said in the same way she might say, “The sun is out, Mama,” or “I like suckers, Mama.”

“Where?” I asked, looking for what surely was a wisp of a spider with a smiling face, spelling sweet things in her web.

“Right there. Up there.”

I look to where she points and there, clinging to the sunroof not two feet from my head, is a disgusting, pointy-legged, hell hound of a spider.

[If spiders did not give me a threat level midnight case of the jeebies there would be a picture of the horrid thing right here. However, since I nearly threw my laptop on the floor and squashed it while doing a Google image search, you’ll have to just use your imagination. I suggest picturing it with a pentagram tattooed on its hairy chest, flicking a cigarette to the ground, cracking its knuckles and pulling out a switchblade. Kinda like this:]

Mean Brown Spder

“Oh, that’s okay sweetie. I’ll get it when we get to Uncle Matt’s house,” I say with my mouth inexplicably. In my head is something more along the lines of “Holy [expletive] [expletive]—there is is a [expletive] spider about to eat my face! It’s going to jump on my arm! It’s going to eat my babies! What the [expletive] am I going to do!?”

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll take care of it.” Where’s my freaking Oscar? I earned it.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEAM!

If you’ve never heard a preschooler scream like an appendage has just been ripped from her body, you’re missing out on one of life’s most terrifying noises. Horror movies have it all wrong. They don’t need ignorant teen girls; they need kids and spiders.

It was on the move. To my kid, it might as well been on her face. Panic set in for me, too, as I would do just about anything to make that blood-curdling sound stop. I pulled into the right lane without looking even a tiny bit. Okay spider—now you’re trying to murder us. I turned on the first residential street I saw and stopped the car. Flip-flop in hand, I poised myself for revenge. One good slap aaaaand…

…it crawled into the cavern that houses the sun roof.

“Did you get it Mama?”

To which I reply, “No! I didn’t! And now, knowing my intent, it has retreated to its bunker, sketching out a plan to hop on my head and startle me, sending our car careening across the street resulting in our untimely deaths! We’re ALL. GOING. TO DIE!”—with my head, that is. My mouth said, “It’s not going to bother us anymore.” Except to murder us.

With one and a half eyes on the sunroof, and half an eye on the road, I continued to my brother and sister-in-law’s house, willing other cars to get the hell out of my way. I arrived, I parked, evacuated the children and—once they were safely inside—gathered tools for my revenge. If I couldn’t kill it with my flip-flop, I’d kill it with limited edition Orla Kelly Pear Ginger-scented Method All-Purpose cleaner. Get ready to die a fragrant death, you beast.

I was out there a long time, you all. A LONG time. First I tried to find it in its hideout, which proved to be rather difficult. I grabbed a flashlight—no use. So then I thought, “Hey! I’ll use my phone to take pictures and that’ll show me where it is.”

No. No, it won’t.

What to do, what to do… I’m climbing on the car, looking down through the sunroof, I’m in the car smashed against the dash looking into the sunroof—no spider. So then I just blindly spray every inch of the sunroof slot. After a quarter of the bottle is gone, I figure I must have killed it, but I need evidence. I need proof. Finally I’m like, “Screw it. It’ll just have to jump on my face later. I retreat.” and then…

Legs.

Digusting little legs.

Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I am now having a full-on, completely audible street-fight type conversation with Mr. Gross-a-lot. I’m fully aware of how crazy it looks, but it’s just me and him now. We’re at the epicenter. I don’t care if no one else gets it.

They say, to catch your prey you need to think like your prey, so I sat there perched, rubbing my imaginary pointy legs together as I lie in wait. I wanted to let it get some distance from it’s bunker so I could take it out once and for all. Slowly but surely it inched its way into the vast expanse of the car roof when—WHACK! SCRAPE! FLICK!—I joined forces with my inner wonder twin, and activated ninja forces in the shape of my flip flop. In a swift and elegant move (or possibly, a flailing, twitching, screaming move), that spider was on the ground.

Good riddance, Brown Spider. Return to the evil dimension from whence you came.

WhoIsMurderedNowSpider.jpg

Brown Spider: A Hate Story

I’m Putting Disgusting Oils in My Mouth

3/52: Liquid
First it was “oil pulling.”

For those not in the know, oil pulling is the process of swishing oil in your mouth for 20 minutes (yes, about the length of episode of Parks and Recreation and not nearly as witty), for the purpose of cleaning your teeth, pulling toxins out of your body, and communing with a version of yourself that existed in a past life. I put that last one in there because ob-vi-ous-ly that could never work, and that’s exactly how you should view the first two things.

Gabrielle Blair at Design Mom did a post a while back about how she started oil pulling. I have an internet crush on her because she’s über cool and fancy, and she seems like a great parent who doesn’t binge watch The Only Way is Essex, but rather flips through the latest issue of Dwell while sautéing root vegetables for a sensible meal she has planned later in the week. So, I figured if she’s doing it, I should definitely do it. She made it sound fabulous.

Cut to: me swishing olive oil in my mouth because I was too lazy to go get coconut oil. This will make you hate having a mouth, people. Don’t do it. So then I thought, “Well, I can’t really blame her for the gross-o-meter in my mouth breaking because she uses coconut oil which, in retrospect, is a much more sensible choice.” So I bought the coconut oil and tried it and it’s still freaking gross. But then I kept doing it (this should give some reference for my idiot-level tenacity) just to see if my eyes would shine like a baby fawn in the first light of the day. (I believe fawn-eyes are listed as a benefit of oil pulling somewhere in the hippy sector of the internet.)

After many days of waking up early to chew on, then swish, coconut oil in my mouth I discovered I did not, in fact, have fawn eyes. To oil pulling’s credit, my teeth did feel clean-ish. Sort of. But, I did not feel any radical bodily changes that would indicate vacated toxins. I did not commune with Nelanie, the Melanie of years gone. But I DID repeat a super gross experience many times, beyond the point where Reason was like, “Nah, you go ahead. I’ll just go brush my teeth like a normal person.”

Bottom line is: Would I recommend oil pulling to a friend? No way, dudes. No way. Unless I was trying to play a mean trick on you. Then absolutely.

You’d think my participation in any oils-in-the-mouth experiments would be over. You would be wrong.

I started reading this website called Megsanity (ht to Abandoning Pretense) which is amazing because the main author is a therapist and so she’s super smart but she also likes to say weird stuff and swear a lot while she’s giving you priceless life advice. I want her to be my therapist pretty please. So, Meg suggested that oregano oil may be helpful in combating depression because of something called “serotonin reuptake.” If you’re curious, go read her stuff because she’s smarter than I am.

Well, we all know I suffer from the occasional brold, so I figured what the heck, right? Sweet lambs: let me tell you that oregano oil tastes like what angry might taste like if it was oil. The bottle says that “warmth is normal” which I assume code for “the fires of hell will awaken in your throat”.

I’ve been experimenting with flavor combinations of candy corns because, well, sometimes I make bad choices.

So this morning I thought, “What if I use a candy corn as a chaser? That might help…” Cut to: abso-freaking-lutely not. Candy corns and their sweet evil do not pair well with the fires of hell, especially if said fires taste like all the pizza sauce in the world. Learn from my mistakes, friends. I’m here to help.

So, what oils have you been putting in your mouth? If the answer is “no oils” please make something up. Just for me, okay? Somebody get in this oily boat with me.

image CC BY-NC 2.0 by Christopher Rose at Flickr

I’m Putting Disgusting Oils in My Mouth

Re: Dear Jerrod (Or Horse Mouth Balls)

Say, "cheese!"
Remember yesterday when I put up that faux-post that was basically a letter to Jerrod? He and I had a little follow-up convo which produced these gems:

Jerrod: Thinking about you friend. Every day is a day to smile bigger.

Me: “Every day is a day to smile bigger.”? That’s about the cheesiest advice ever. And it totally worked.

Jerrod: I punched my dumb face in the balls after I sent it. My apologies.
And I’m glad it did.

Me: Hey, it worked. Don’t punch a gift horse in the mouth balls.

Jerrod: I’m a horse? With gifts?

Me: Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth
Me: I guess that would mean *I* punched the gift horse in the mouth balls.

Jerrod: See. Smiles all around.

I’ve got the best friends.

photo CC BY-SA 2.0 by SirPecanGum at flickr

Re: Dear Jerrod (Or Horse Mouth Balls)

Dear Jerrod

WritingThis is a total cheater post in which I write a letter to a friend and pretend it’s a blog post.

My super cool friend Jerrod checks in with me from time to time and I was juuuust about to write him back, and I was going to say something like, “I hate that I never have time to blog and…” blah blah, something else, and then my brain said, “Whoa there, little filly,”—apparently my brain is part cowgirl, and thinks I’m a horse. No problems there— “whoa. Why don’t you take all that energy you’d put into writing Jerrod and smack it into a blog post? Two birds, one stone, something about a bush perhaps…point is: It’s a good idea. *tongue click* *tongue click*.” At which point I trotted to my computer and fired up the ol’ WordPress.

BUT (don’t leave sweet reader! I promise you’ll like it too!) I basically sound the same if I’m writing to one person or a hundred (is that a good thing? Be sure to weigh in in the comments. Lord knows I lost track of normal a while ago), so you can pretend I wrote this to you, too. Ahem.

Dear Jerrod,

Greetings from the blow up couch that is currently taking up my entire living room! Yes, it’s true. The baby is still not sleeping. We’re trying to train her to sleep through the night again, but it necessitates a wee bit of crying on her part and, due to the opera-singer-quality pipes she has, we can’t keep her in the room she shares with her sister. So, she goes in our room, we go on the blow up couch in the living room, and everyone is equally miserable. Problem solved.

I’m really hating that I don’t have time to write much anymore. I write half a blog post in my head while I’m making coffee or driving the girls around, but I just can’t seem to make it back to the computer and take the time to actually write the whole thing out. I don’t know what’s worse—not writing, or having all those words rattle around in my head all the time. There’s enough stuff loose up there already.

We’re heading into a new season here. No, not Fall, because that’s not really a thing in San Diego. Instead, we transition from Summer with a season called Lunacy, in which we celebrate a thousand birthdays and our anniversary, craft Halloween costumes for four, chase the brilliant idea of making all of our Christmas presents (hello boiling beeswax, fabric scraps, sewing machine and insanity), and drink a questionable number of Hot Toddies. Every year I enter it with the highest hopes of being magical and lovely and sensible, and I end it with burns from the hot glue gun. It’s quite the spectacle.

So, that’s me. Mostly. I dunno I probably forgot a ton of stuff. Lunacy descends. How are you & the fam? Cough it up, friend. Cough it up.

photo CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 by jeffery james pacres at flickr. 

Dear Jerrod

Sleep deprivation makes me cranky/murderous

exhaustedThe baby won’t sleep you all. Maybe it’s teething, or she developed bad habits when she recently had a cold, or perhaps she’s part werewolf and the moon is calling her to the woods. I really, honestly don’t know.

Whatever the cause, we find ourselves meeting the end of the day—which should be full of fluffy pillows and dancing sugarplums—with a howling dread. The night is when the screaming comes. The night is bad. Bad, bad nighttime.

At some point last night the baby was really going for it. I mean, with gusto. Like there is an olympic event for not sleeping and she was going to qualify if it killed her (and us. Sacrifices must be made for greatness.). The cat then sniffed our weakness and decided it was time to feign starvation and beg for food. This will not do, kitty. Oh no, it will not. The werewolf thing was *definitely* not the problem. It was the cat. For sure.

Me: “Did you feed the cat?”
Stephen: “Yes.”
Me: [irritated pause]
Stephen: “I could…”
Me: “Let’s kill the cat.”
Stephen: “…feed her a little more.”
Me: “Oh, yeah. Sure. Or that.”

One of us tolerates sleep deprivation better than the other.

And that’s my 100th post, friends. An account of my brief flirtation of the idea of murdering our family cat. Hooray?

Sleep deprivation makes me cranky/murderous

A Royal Decree from Princess Chubbila Stinkerton III

Crown baby booties

Hear ye! Hear ye! The following is a Royal Decree from her Majesty Princess Chubbila Stinkerton III on her first birthday. Should any deviation from this decree occur, her Majesty’s discontent will be made known with a loud wail.

  1. Toys are no longer accepted in the presence of the princess; only trash, or items of formidable danger, preferably those shaped like the windpipe. Do not attempt to remove items from the hands of the princess at any time.
  2. Anyone who attempts to remove excrement from the princess’ nether regions shall have their murder plotted forthwith.
  3. Tasks of any importance that do not revolve around the pleasure of the princess shall not be tolerated.
  4. If the princess desires what you have, you shall relinquish it.
  5. The princess desires what you have.
  6. The princess shall utilize the magic of a forest troll to detect any sense of relaxation. Such senses will be vanquished.
  7. The princess’ pinky nail shall never be trimmed under any circumstances. The caretaker shall receive the shame of others who do not allow their charges to look as if they have a drug habit.

If you succeed in holding up these tenants, you will be rewarded with signs of affection. They will be hug-like and kiss-like in nature, and they will be coated in thick slobber and food remnants. Do not offend the princess by wiping said slobber from your face in her presence.

 p.s. Happy birthday Princess Stinkerton. We’re exceedingly blessed by your ridiculous self. Love you to bits.  

Photo credit Funky Shapes on Flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 Buy these booties & other cute stuff at the Funky Shapes Etsy Store

 

A Royal Decree from Princess Chubbila Stinkerton III

Love asparagus. Love myself.

Asparagus on the grill

At the end of a hot day in San Diego, when I’m dying for a climate that involves more than one and a half seasons, I find myself looking over the grill to the palm trees, the golden light, the neighbors houses. The smell of white wine and salmon and dill swirls around me and though I hate this joke of a spring day, I love this moment. This moment is mine. This moment is a gift.

I hear my daughters in the other room, my husband lifting that (happy) burden from my shoulders for a while. I sit down and let words run. Like a long shower. Or a long cry. Or a long sip from a glass of wine.

It’s these little moments that I let go by all too often. They’re the moments you think, “Holy shit, I’m gonna make it. I’m gonna be okay.” I’m not saying it’ll be spectacular. Not magazine-worthy. Just good. Solid, deep-running, gratefully good. Good enough to make it until tomorrow. One day at a time, sweet Jesus.

The salmon isn’t done yet and I’ll likely burn it and the asparagus before I’m done here (don’t worry, I’m checking it), but I feel like I should catch these words before they wander off. All my swears and too much/not enough seriousness–I need to love those bastards & kiss them straight on the mouth. They’re me in zeros and ones. They’re me in syllables. They’re me in thoughts, and I need a good kiss from me.

And that’s what we’re doing in life, isn’t it? Taking a minute to believe that what we feel is worth a damn? Taking the leap of faith that we won’t be discarded or—maybe—those that will discard us had done so long ago, so we should stop tap dancing to keep them around? Isn’t that what life/art/love/faith is about?

So I’m giving myself a nice, long moment to treasure the words coming out of my thumbs because burnt asparagus (don’t worry, I’m still checking it) isn’t the worst thing I’ll produce, but perfect asparagus won’t be the best thing either.

It’s just asparagus, Melanie. Calm down.

And openness? Full and messy participation? Just freaking showing up? It’s not all that different. It’s the thing we share over small tables. It’s sustenance. It’s sacred and mundane at once. It’s just asparagus. It might be burnt today, it might not tomorrow. But either way it’s necessary. And either way it’s important to someone. Even if you’re the only someone who eats it.

 

[Author’s note: I wrote this post a while ago (in Spring—obviously), but I’m just getting around to post it. Because sometimes I collect drafts like a hoarder, and I can’t bring myself to show them to anyone else. There are a few little quirks in my breed.]

 Photo credit woodleywonderworks at Flickr CC BY 2.0

Love asparagus. Love myself.