Arachnophobe

My unreasonable, out-of-proportion-to-reality fear of spiders started when I moved into a little studio in a very woodsy area. I probably kill half a dozen spiders in my house on an average day. Big ones. Little ones. Fat ones. Skinny ones. Spindly ones. Squatty ones. I suppose it’s better than, say, a crocodile infestation, or a plague of locusts or burning hail. They’re small. Ish. I’m bigger than they are. I can squash them like the bugs they are.

Even though I know all of this I always have the same reaction when I see one.

I scream.

Not a little girly squeal, but a bloodcurdling shriek that would land me the lead role in any number of slasher movies. It’s a totally involuntary reaction and it’s embarrassing. 

When the initial panic subsides, I search frantically for an implement of destruction. A shoe, a rolled up magazine. A priceless figurine. It doesn’t matter. The collateral damage is of no concern so long as it dispatches the 8-legged demon to spider purgatory.  It’s not as simple as it sounds. Spiders are fast. Really fast. And they can keep running until they’re down to about two legs.

Spiders appear to get into my home via some Hell Mouth portal that opens directly into my bathroom – which is apparently some sort of arachnid day spa destination. They meet with friends for a drink in the bathtub and then like to cozy up for a little nappy-poo in my bath towels. I have learned to carefully shake out all the towels and the shower curtain and peep into the tub before I climb in. Invariably there are those I discover only after I am naked and defenseless.

I am probably the only person I know who keeps a baseball bat in the shower. If that dude from “psycho” ever sneaks up on ME he’s gonna get a very unpleasant surprise.

My phobia has progressed beyond fear of anything that IS  a spider to fear of anything that MIGHT be a spider.

I over-react if I see the slightest hint of motion out of the corner of my eye. I’ve hurled my body out of my office chair and to the floor when a light on my modem blinked. I’ve thrown plates of food in the air when a piece of lettuce shifted. If I feel a stray hair brush my neck unexpectedly I start pummeling myself like a spastic. I can only imagine the catastrophe if I were to find a spider in the car with me while driving. I’d like to think I could keep my wits about me, but who am I kidding? They’d be pulling my car out of a ravine on the side of the road and I’d be running down the middle of the highway screaming.

Somewhere, in the spider afterlife, little critters are swapping stories of their demise.

“How’d they get YOU?"

“A shoe.”

“...and you?”

“Lawn dart.”

“What about you?”

“I dunno what happened, I was just crawling around in the car and suddenly, CRASH!”

Yeah, well I’m not your chauffeur. Next time just shoot a web out of your butt and let the wind take you where you want to go.

Handicapped Riding Lessons

I teach riding lessons. It’s fun and rewarding. Most of the time. But if I’m ill, like I am this week, it can be a challenge. I’m a little bit off my game. Therefore I’ve written this primer as a guide to help you get the most out of taking riding lessons with me when I’m not feeling well. 

I’ll be sleeping in my car until it’s time to start the lesson. It’s your responsibility to wake me up. I’ll need at least ten minutes to remember where I am and what I’m doing and another five minutes to visit the porta-potty and load up on cold meds. 

Instead of walking around the riding arena during the lesson, I’ll be planting myself in a chair in the nearest patch of shade.  Do not expect me to get up for any reason.

Instructions may consist of things like ‘drop your stirrups and wake me up in ten minutes’ and ‘ride single file down to the drug store and bring back cough syrup while remaining in two point.’

I will try to remember your names.

If my voice gives out, hand signals will be used. Three fingers means canter. Two means trot. One means walk. A circular motion with the hand means reverse. A wide sweeping motion with one arm means speed up. A short quick motion means slow down. Flailing my arms wildly probably means I have a bee in my hair, but could also mean you’re about to do something that will result in bodily harm to yourself or others. Interpret as you see fit. 

Both hands clutching my chest means I need CPR.

If I point at a fence it means I want you to jump it.

You’ll know by the expression on my face afterwards if it was any good or not.

A look of relief means it was good.
No change in expression means it was OK.
A raised eyebrow means it could have been worse.
Rolling my eyes means it WAS worse
Burying my face in my hands is a good indication that it’s time for you to give up and go home 

I’ll have my cell phone with me. If you fall off, I’ll call your cell phone. If you answer it I’ll tell you what you did wrong. If you don’t answer I’ll know to dial 911.

Finally, I will expect someone to bring a car down to drive me back to the barn when the lesson is over. If you forget, and I have to walk back, you'd better be gone by the time I get there. 

Happy riding.

Suicide Hotline

SH: Hello, Suicide Hotline, how can I help you?

Caller: I’m going to kill myself.

SH: How?

Caller: How what?

SH: How are you going to kill yourself?

Caller: I – well – I don’t know!

SH: Well that’s kind of an important piece of information to have, don’t you think?

Caller: I hadn’t thought that much about it.

SH: Well maybe you’d better.

Caller: I don’t know – stick my head in the oven.

SH: Do you have a gas oven?

Caller: I don’t think so.

SH: Well then that’s not going to work out very well, is it?

Caller: Okay, I’ll shoot myself.

SH: Do you have a gun?

Caller: No.

SH: You haven’t really done your homework on this, have you?

Caller: I have a bottle of pills I can take.

SH: What kind?

Caller: Let me check. Doan’s Little Liver Pills

SH: Do those things work?

Caller: I don’t know, I’ve never taken one.

SH: Then why do you have them?

Caller: They were in the medicine cabinet when I moved into the apartment.

SH: When was that?

Caller: 1987. Is that important?

SH: What do you pay for rent?

Caller: Fifteen hundred bucks.

SH: Geez, no wonder you want to kill yourself.

Caller: You’re not helping.

SH: Okay, what floor do you live on?

Caller: Fifth.

SH: Why don’t you jump out the window?

Caller: You want me to jump out the window?

SH: Well, we’re running out of other options aren’t we?

Caller: I thought you were supposed to talk me out of it!

SH: Why would I want to do that?

Caller: Because you’re the Suicide Hotline!

SH: You must want the Suicide PREVENTION Hotline. This is the SUICIDE Hotline. We’re here to help you kill yourself.

Caller: Why would you want to help me kill myself?

SH: Clearly SOMEbody’s going to have to help you.

Caller: How much is this call costing me?

SH: Why do you care, you’re killing yourself.

Caller: You people are sick! (CLICK).

With Apologies to Dr Seuss

I'm often asked where I get ideas for the things I write about. The simple answer is, everywhere. As evidenced by today's blog, even a trip to the hardware store can become an outlet for macabre creativity. I'd like to apologize to Dr. Seuss for my blatant ripoff of his writing style – although I think he might approve.

Hooks I needed

Hooks I sought

A simple thing, a hook,

I thought

Until I saw it

down the aisle

A wall of hooks

that spanned a mile!

Who would have guessed it

so confusing

All those hooks

All there for choosing!

Hooks that stick on

Hooks that screw on

Hooks that clip on 

Hooks that glue on

Hooks for ceilings

Hooks for walls

Hooks for closets

Hooks for halls 

Hooks for coats

Hooks for hats

Hooks for hooks

Imagine that!

Hooks in silver

Hooks in gold

Hooks for looks

And hooks that hold

Hooks of metal 

Hooks of wood

Hooks of plastic

(cheap, but good)

Big hooks, little hooks

Fat and thin

Hooks that swivel

Hooks that spin

Long hooks, short hooks

Curved and straight

Hooks with crooks

(best used for bait)

My head felt faint

My stomach sick

I couldn't choose 

I couldn't pick!

It wasn't fair

It wasn't right

Those laughing hooks

They mocked my plight!

I left bereft

Downhearted, stranded

Hookless, hopeless,

Empty handed

A painful blow

My quest to fail

Aw, screw the hooks

Who's got a nail?

I miss my tool

I've noticed something the last few times I've traveled.

Airport personnel have absolutely no sense of humor.

I think this has less to do with the events of 9/11 and more to do with the fact that, like most Americans, these people hate their jobs. They hate getting up in the morning, they hate being on their feet all day and they hate co-mingling with airport riff raff in search of cigarette lighters, tweezers and other dangerous contraband. It’s just one rung above wearing a hairnet and saying ‘do you want fries with that?’ on the employment ladder.

I experienced this lack of humor when I took a trip to visit a friend last fall. I had two bags with me and was planning to check one. But it was early in the morning and I got in the wrong line. Instead of baggage check-in, I found that I was in the security check line. I'd just stood in the line for half an hour. I didn’t want to get out of line, check my bag, and have to stand in line again. So I did my best to cram my larger bag into the 'your bag must fit here to be a carry on' thingy. It mostly fit. The guy inspecting the bags said it was good enough for him.

So was thinking, I'm in like Flynn.

Then I had to go through the damned metal detector and x-ray machines.

I put all my bags on the conveyer belt and disrobed to nearly my underwear. I was wearing some rather spiffy looking western boots. (They were bastard-child western boots with pointed toes. I would be executed for wearing these boots in, say, Texas, but they were fine for California.) The security guy pointed to them and said, 'how 'bout those boots?'  I held my foot out and smiled. "How about these boots? They're nice, aren't they? You like 'em?"

He just glared at me, which I interpreted of his way of telling me to stop being a smartass and take off the goddamned boots.

I obliged, and they went on the conveyer belt with all of my other possessions. I walked through the security gate with no problem. I waited for my bags.

Something beeped.

It was my bag.

Or rather, it was the machine that beeped because of something in my bag.

So I got to hold up the line while another man with no sense of humor examined the contents of my bag. This was the bag I had intended to check, by the way. My very expensive Leatherman tool was in there. I loved my Leatherman tool. I always carried it. You just never knew when you were going to be required to, say, open a wine bottle or defuse a bomb. I’m sure McGyver never left home without his Leatherman.

The Man With No Sense of Humor found my Leatherman tool, and promptly confiscated it. I guess he was afraid I’m going to try to tweeze the pilot or corkscrew one of the attendants.

This tool cost me fifty bucks. I wanted my tool back, or I wanted fifty bucks.

I told him this, pretty much in those words and in the tone you might imagine. I found out much later that they are SUPPOSED to give you the option of mailing your item back home if you want to. But he didn’t tell me this. He just told me he was taking the tool.

I told him again that he owed me fifty bucks.

He was not amused, nor did he look remotely like he was going to give me fifty bucks.

At this point anyone with me would have been cringing and/or pretending they didn’t know me, and/or summoning the nearest FBI agent to take me into custody.

I persisted up until what I perceived was the edge of this guy’s breaking point (even offering him a $10 discount if he paid cash), but in the end I lost the tool.

And as I walked away, he didn’t put it in the tray with the other confiscated contraband.

No.

He put MY Leatherman in HIS pocket.

I was tempted to leap back over the security gate in protest and demand that the man take the tool out of his pants. In retrospect, I can see where this request would have been grossly misinterpreted. Wisely, I just walked away, bemoaning the fact that I’d just bought The Man With No Sense of Humor a $50 tool.


By the way, this trip took place a few days before Halloween. Airline employees had decorated all the gates for the holiday. The United Airlines gate was elaborately decorated with skeletons, tombstones and a life-sized statue of the Grim Reaper standing right in front of the door you go through to board the plane. This is NOT what I want to see when I’m about to step onto a fifty-seven ton aircraft that defies all laws of physics and gravity in the first place. Still, it was funny in a sick, twisted sort of way. Anyway, I didn’t fly United, I flew Southwest. In keeping with their no-frills policy, Southwest’s decorations were more frugal and consisted mainly of giant cutouts of candy corn taped to the walls. They had real pieces of candy corn set out on the counters but the damned things were glued down. I tried to pry one up and some lady slapped my hand. I suppose that’s to be expected from an airline that just sends you on the plane in groups and makes you duke it out for seats and overhead storage. It’s a tough battle when you’re not allowed to carry any weapons. I could really have used the corkscrew attachment on my Leatherman tool.

Which was, of course, in the pocket of the pants of The Man With No Sense of Humor.

Match-dot-comedy

I admit it. I spent six months on match-dot-com a few years ago. I've had a lot of people ask me a lot of questions about it. Mostly guys. Mostly guys who found me on match-dot-com. Mostly guys who found me on match-dot-com and got rejected. Mostly guys who found me on match-dot-com and got rejected and couldn't understand why.

As a public service, I've written the following primer. I hope it will help you understand where you went wrong and help you succeed in the future. Just don't try succeeding with ME, you're already off my list.

Instructions for match-dot-com suitors:

1. Pass the reading comprehension portion of the program. Don't 'wink'. I don't respond to 'winks.' This directive seems clear. Still, winks stacked up in my inbox like planes waiting to land at O'Hare. I can only assume you were winking just to irritate me. You'll be pleased to know that it worked. 

More likely, you never even read as far as 'don't wink'. You saw a photo, thought it was cute, and that was enough to make you believe in our destiny. Although that makes a very compelling case, I beg to differ. 

If you can't read the whole profile, at least read the summary and scan the "about my date" section. It can be difficult to know what a woman really means, so let me translate: "Seeking men 40 - 50" means that we are seeking men 40 to 50. "Do not want to have kids" means that we do not want to have kids. "Smoking: No Way" means Smoking: No Way. “No” means no. I think you get the idea. 

If you don't meet any of my criteria, don’t act surprised and offended when I point out that we're not a good match. If I politely turn you down, there is no need to send an angry response. Should you feel compelled, perhaps anger management classes would be a better investment than a match-dot-com subscription. 

2. Don’t recite your entire life story in your first email. A paragraph introducing yourself is more than sufficient. If you don’t have anything more interesting to say than “I think U R Hot, let’s meet”, don’t expect a response. 

3. USE SPELL CHECK. I cannot stress this enough. If you don’t have a spell check program, get someone to proofread your profile. Everyone is granted a few typos, but a profile brimming with spelling and grammar errors that a third-grader could identify will be immediately 86'd. Learn the difference between a plural and a possessive. And for the love of Mike, don’t litter your text with little smiley faces or “LOL” or, worst of all, “hahaha’s”.  By the way, saying that you grew up in Michigan or that you value hard work has nothing whatsoever to do with your "ethnicity." Use the dictionary and stop looking up everything on Wikipedia.  Also, saying that you come from a "good Swedish back round" makes no sense whatsoever unless you happen to be a side of beef.

Your  actual profile content: 

1. Don't lie about your age because you "don't look it" or so you "won't be left out of people's searches." Girls do all kinds of crazy ass searches, just for sport. Trust me, we'll find you. 

2. Don't post pictures that are 8 years old, 50 pounds lighter,  have you hidden under a hat and sunglasses or that look suspiciously like stills of Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Some of you are laughing, but others KNOW who you are. Kindly deep-six those pictures of you with your shirt off, flexing your muscles or in the shower. Please use the phrase "athletic and toned" judiciously. Playing volleyball fifteen years ago or walking on the elliptical twice per week doesn't make you 'athletic and toned.' 

3. If you are “currently separated” for less than a year –  move along. You may think you are ready for a relationship, but you aren’t. Don’t play the ‘But I’ve been emotionally separated for years’ card. There should be a mandatory 12-month waiting period before you’re allowed back into even the shallow end of the dating pool. 

Unfortunate experiences have made me careful about people I 'meet' online. If I don't answer personal questions, give out my phone number or agree to meet you after one email, don't push. Bullying or getting nasty isn’t going to win you any answers. If you try those tactics, don’t be surprised when I never write back. 

If we do meet, and you decide we aren’t a match, please don’t pull the ‘disappear off the face of the earth’ act. Call, or email, and say ‘thanks for meeting with me but I don’t think we’re a good match.’ I don’t need 101 reasons – or ANY reasons - why. Just put on your big girl panties and wrap things up properly. 

I hope the guidelines above help you in your quest to meet that perfect person online. I believe I'll just continue to patiently wait for Tom Selleck to get divorced. 

Fashion Police

I think there should be Fashion Police.

Not the perky, quirky TV personalities that tell you "what not to wear" – but a uniformed task force with the authority to hand out citations to people who exhibit no fashion sense. I'm not talking about people who aren't able to put together a chic ensemble. I'm talking about people who leave the house looking like the fashion equivalent of a train wreck.

Case in point: I remember seeing a very overweight woman out shopping. She was wearing a fire-engine red lycra top that looked several sizes too small, tighty-white spandex pants and underwear with blue flowers on them (clearly visible under the spandex). Okay, in what alternate universe does ANYone think that this sort of look is attractive? Hey lady, you know that big long thingy hanging on the back of your closet door? It's called a mirror. Howzabout you take a look in it before you leave the house wearing something that's going to permanently scar my retinas?

Which brings me to the First Law of Fashion:

Spandex: it's a privilege, not a right. 1% of the population looks good in spandex. Chances are, you're not in that percentile.

Second Law of Fashion:
Tight clothing does NOT make you look slimmer. It makes you look like you have no idea what size clothing you should wear or that you just made three trips to the all you can eat buffet. If you look like you'll need the Jaws of Life to extract you from your jeans, go back to your closet and pick something else.

Third Law of Fashion:
Muffin top doesn't look good on anyone. I don't care if you're fifteen or fifty. If you're wearing low slung jeans and you're spilling out over the top of them, it ain't pretty. Muffin top is nature's way of telling you that you either need a bigger size, or need to lay off the Cheetos.

Fourth Law of Fashion:
Just because it's "in style" doesn't mean you should wear it. Not all styles look good on all body types. I cannot stress this enough.

Fifth Law of Fashion:
Underwear should be just that. We don't wanna see your fine washables peeking out from under your shirts or pants. We don't wanna see your plumber's crack, either. For the love of Pete, wear clothing that keeps your private parts private.

And my final piece of advice: check out all the angles. YOU may not have to look at your backside, but other people do.

No matter what your size or shape, there is clothing that can flatter you. It's your civic duty (or should be) to find it and wear it. It doesn't have to have a hefty price tag or a designer's name on it. It can come from Wal Mart or Goodwill. It just has to look good on you.

Just consider it your little contribution toward making America more beautiful.