Guns Don't Kill People, Spiders Kill People

I recently saw a t-shirt that said, "The only thing to fear is fear itself. And spiders." I promptly ordered one for myself and wondered why that statement rang so true for me. Surely, there are scarier things in the world besides spiders, right? (Spoiler Alert: there is nothing scarier than spiders anywhere or ever. And stop calling me Shirley.) Most spiders just want to be left alone to go about their business of building webs, turning people into superheroes, and other such spidery affairs. But since I turn into a quivering pile of chicken-shaped Jell-o Jigglers whenever a spider is around, I figured it was worthy of some reflection.

Initially I posited that the fear has to do with the overall creepiness of a spider's appearance. Because when I look at a spider, I don't just see 8 legs, a few sets of eyes, and an exoskeleton. When I look at a spider, I see a spindly, looming creature, poised for attack, with venom-infused saliva dripping from its fangs, wielding a quadruple barreled shotgun that shoots ninja death stars, light sabers, and fear. So, needless to say, this can be cause for alarm.

What is equally concerning to me about spiders is that I'm quite certain that they lurk around my house waiting for a prime opportunity for me to let my guard down so they may crawl into my mouth/nose/orifices and have a huge, raging spider disco orgy which will result in the production of thousands of illegitimate spider babies suffering from coke withdrawal. I'm all for a good party, I just don't particularly want that going on in my sinuses.

If spiders at least had the decency to have audible footsteps like the rest of us, I'd know they were coming and could prepare myself mentally. Instead they just sidle up to you like the creepy, skulking produce guy at Safeway that always just seems to "be there" when you can't find the shallots.

Spiders never make their appearances when you've just come home from a rousing game of tennis or badminton and are jacked up on endorphins and wielding the perfect instrument of spider destruction. It's usually when you're at your most vulnerable, like when you're in the shower and happen to look up and see one hanging from the ceiling baring his fangs and telling you that you should really condition more than once a week. Or, when you've settled in on your couch to enjoy a glass of wine and the latest Nicholas Sparks novel and boom! There he is, spinning his web like Charlotte, but instead of it saying something helpful or uplifting, it says something menacing like "god is dead" just to mess with you.

If that won't ruin your night, I don't know what will.

Because of this, I don't handle seeing spiders in a particularly "adult" "manner". In the event that there is a spider in my proximity and someone is around who can translate my little girl shrieks into human language, they are pretty much expected to run point on the subsequent spider slaughter. I'm sure it's a little confusing when, in the heat of the moment, I'm shouting at them, "that's not going to do it!" as they approach the spider with a shoe or a magazine or (god forbid) a tissue. I'm just trying to prevent them from going into battle egregiously unprepared for their safety and mine. But mostly mine.

Once, filled with an inflated and very much misplaced sense of having finally conquered my fear, I made an attempt at killing a spider on my own. I was looking at the spider in the bathroom pondering my attack when the spider leapt across the room, tackled me to the ground and then banged my head against the toilet seat until I lost consciousness. It then made its escape into the night never to be seen again, taking with it my hubris and my iPod.

Due to this harrowing experience (conveyed without an ounce of hyperbole), I'm unwilling unable to take on a spider independently. I recognize that because of this I should not be overly critical of those that come to my aid. But on what crazy, backwards, spider-free planet are people taught that a broom is a good tool for bringing about the demise of an arachnid? I understand that if a spider is on the ceiling it may be difficult to reach, but really? The broom bristles are completely lacking in the puissance needed to finish the job. The spider will not only be decidedly undead, it will instead be catapulted to an unknown location via the snapping action of the bendy bristles!

To recap, utilizing a broom to kill a spider has done one, if not all of the following:

1. Not killed the spider.

2. Given the spider key intel regarding your intentions to kill it.

3. Sent the spider into a blind rage.

4. Catapulted the spider to an unknown location via the bendy bristles.

5. Allowed the spider ample time to consider how nice of a place my nostrils would be for its next spider disco orgy.

So, in the interest of preventing the propagation of another generation of coked-out hapless spider disco babies, please... no brooms.

Seeing how irrational I become in these circumstances, people often try to help by saying things like, but they kill other bugs and they're so helpful to the ecosystem and blah blah blah science. Typically, however, I fail to consider the global benefit in a moment in which I'm being assaulted by the absolute scariest creature on earth. Frankly, I think we'd all be willing to sacrifice the robustness of a few ecosystems to put our minds at ease. I am certainly happy to absorb any of the bug-killing burden that was heretofore being shouldered by spiders if it helps ensure my own spider-free existence.

I suppose it's evident that I may not have the best, most rational reasons for my fear of spiders. But really, fear that is based in utter nonsense tends to be the most potent (and the most fun when it's happening to other people). Realistically, unless I move to Antarctica, I will still have to deal with spiders in one way or another. All I can really do is hide my iPod and make sure I always have a tennis racket handy.

Diary of a Mad Black Cat (#2)

I believe it was Plato who said, "what can't be said about poop briefly shouldn't be said at all." Or was it Confucious? Either way, poignant, so I'll try to keep it short.


My cat is technically an "outdoor" cat, but ever since I moved into my new condo a couple of months ago, he seems to regard the outdoors as daunting, depressing, and like something he only wants to deal with if he absolutely has to. Like Walmart.

Suffice it to say that since he's not going outside, he's doing all of his business in his litterbox in my one-bedroom, 740 square foot condo. Said condo does not afford me the luxury of being able to cloister off said litterbox in a hepa-filtered walk-in closet specifically designed to eliminate any unsightliness and odors, as would be my preference.

So as to avoid putting it in the kitchen or other areas frequented by my esteemed guests, his litterbox invades my bedroom's peaceful landscape and is a giant, stinking, pooped-filled eyesore. Like Walmart.

I try to stay on top of keeping his box clean to avoid any prolonged assault on my olfactory sensors (smell it, scoop it, bag it, curse at cat, repeat). Lately though, he seems to be inclined to void his bowels right after I've hung up my poop scoop for the day and crawled into bed.

Just as I can feel myself letting the last shreds of the day go, I hear him climb into his box. What he does with the litter in there is beyond me, but it sounds like a production that is could pass for the creation of a Dubai man-made island. It is precise, it is orchestrated, and for him it seems to be all about producing an atmosphere in which he can enjoy bowel releasing perfection.

Sometimes it starts as a trickle and then hastens into a torrential release. This is of course a massive relief (to both of us, I'm guessing) because I know I can roll over and deal with the clean up in the morning. The times I'm not so lucky, however, are when I hear a few quick kitty grunts followed directly by the plopping sound that can only be made by a good old-fashioned kitty bowel movement.

Then it's a race against time. The permeating smell of his latest creation waits for no one.

I jolt out of bed and make my way to the kitchen for a plastic bag as the smell chases me like a villain in a horror movie. I am clumsy and making too many mistakes and cursing myself for not being prepared for once in my life for Christ's sake.

My cat, thrilled with himself, usually sprints around the house in what I refer to as his "victory lap". What I don't know is if he is celebrating his endeavor, footloose and fancy free, or is afraid the poop will somehow jump back into his kitty bowels if he doesn't get away quickly enough.

Either way, he is too caught up in his celebration/escape and is of absolutely no assistance to me. I'm almost never able to extricate the poop in a timely enough fashion so that my living space does not smell like something out of Slumdog Millionaire.

Anyway, it's nothing with which the average pet owner or parent isn't well acquainted. And I've already said too much on the topic. Luckily for me, when the snow thaws and the spring comes, there's the possibility that he'll head outside and conduct his business in somewhere in nature's bounty. Most parents will not be so lucky.