The Attack of the Boogeyman!

We learn a lot about ourselves in the face of adversity, or near death experiences. And this has been the week of near death experiences.

On Wednesday night about 3 a.m. my sister woke to someone pounding on her door. After ruling out a lost friend of a neighbor, she began to panic as the knocks became louder, a light was flashed into her apartment, and someone clarified her apartment number.

Her phone was in the other room, so she could not call the police until the men left. The men were the police, but that still does not make the story of a 3 a.m. visitor any less scary.

Because we have a healthy sister relationship, if she does something, I want to do it to. However, I did not want this to happen.

This past Saturday Chris had a puzzle competition. I was going to have the apartment to myself.

No problem. I Kissed him goodbye and spent the evening with friends.

It's not that I don't like being alone at night. It's my overactive imagination convinced there is an axe murderer waiting for me on the other side of the shower; and is now lurking behind every corner. I'm the one that forgets to lock my front door or I leave keys in the lock during the day. But when I know Chris is gone for whatever reason, all doors and windows are closed and locked.

My reasoning is Chris and I have a better chance of taking down the crazed serial killer together, than I do on my own.

I'm very safety conscience.

Upon returning my friends' house I threw a movie into my laptop and watched TV in bed. Knowing Meghan's story from a couple nights ago, I brought my phone into bed and placed it under my pillow; before rolling myself into a burrito under four blankets; to ward myself from the cold night air the fan was bringing into the bedroom.

I locked the front door, but kept the deadbolt unlocked so my lovely husband could come in.

At some point I fell asleep, thinking I should have my hockey stick or softball bat in arms reach in case something happened.

What could happen?

I live in one of the safest communities. Please note, I forgot that we also have a high rate of serial killers in Washington.

Something happened. I swear life likes to prove me wrong.

Around 3 that morning, a large person entered the apartment. I slept through it. When the person entered the bedroom, he made the mistake of bumping the bed. The involuntary movement of my foot caused me to wake up in a panic. On a scale of 1-10 I was at a 500.

You might be asking why I didn't hear the bedroom door open. The door was already open. I hate my door closed. Even in college I hated having the door closed. You would think after four years of my door constantly being closed I would be okay with it.

I'm not.

In fact, the reasoning behind the open door is simple. I can hear the perpetrator come into the apartment if the bedroom door is open.

It was a good theory. A horrible practice.

The person was fairly close to the bed. My ring is on my left hand and I can do some pretty serious damage with that sucker. I tried to free my arm from the blankets. I was also kicking wildly, trying to free my legs in order to kick the perpetrator.

I must have looked like a deranged person making a snow angel.

I let out loud, fire alarm sounding, screams. The whole time my brain is screaming at me to stop screaming and start punching. I could not punch because I was wound so tight in my blankets.

Then the perpetrator began yelling. Screaming at me.

Which caused me to panic more. I yelled louder, and began thrashing with new intensity. Please note, all I was fighting were the damn blankets.

Finally, finally I almost free myself. Only to have the perpetrator get closer to me, almost if he was on top of me.

It was beginning to look like the intro to a Law & Order SVU episode. I tried to fight back one last time, about to free my leg from the blankets.

When he yells, "Mo it's me! Mo it's me! It's me Mo! You're okay!"

I stopped screaming in my fire alarm scream, and slowed the flailing, mostly because I was getting more and more tangled in blankets.

Chris looked down at me, looking as panicked as I feel.

"You okay?" He asks gently, still standing by the bed, to ensure its safe for his entry.

I nod, I have tears rolling down my cheeks I'm so relieved and scared. Of course its darker than India Ink and he can't see me. I have to say I'm okay.

Normally during the night I sleep across the entire bed. Taking up way more space than a five foot five inch person should be able to. I normally send Chris to the edge of the bed, where he clings to the side.

This time I clung to the edge. I sought refuge in the hole between the bed and wall. I tried to calm down enough to fall back to sleep.

Sleep didn't happen. When you survive an attack during the night, the last thing you want to do is sleep.

So what did I learn about myself?

Besides that I can function on little sleep the next day?

In a crisis I will try to fight back, even if I am stuck under blankets. This is much better than being the person running around in circles screaming. Or trying to hide under the bed, where we all know monsters live.

I also realized in the aftermath, it's a good thing I was stuck. The possibility of Chris becoming seriously injured if I was able to lay a hand or foot on him was pretty good.

Chris learned that it is best to stand in the doorway and announce himself before entering.

All good things. Except now, I think I will also booby trap the front and bedroom doors before falling asleep.

Battle of the Shower

It's official. My neighbors have confirmed that I am indeed out of control crazy. I'm sure they have been suspecting this for a while now, and I have confirmed all suspicions.

Our walls are pretty thick in our apartment building. We will hear the occasional bass, or a door slam, but for the most part you can't hear anything. Except, when all our windows are open, my neighbors' windows are open and I let out a blood curdling scream.

Seven people shouted out "Are you okay?"

I yelled back "Fine, sorry."

I'm impressed so many people are around at 11:30 in the morning on a weekday. It's nice to know that if something truly serious and horrible happened there is someone to hear my screams.

Ever since I was little I have been convinced some axe murderer is on the other side of the shower curtain. Waiting for me to come out of the shower and kill me. I don't know why I think the shower curtain can protect me; or stop an axe murdering lunatic, but I do. 

The danger is always on the outside of the shower curtain, never in it, until today.

I'm trying to figure out how many battles I can lose and still claim a victory in the war against the SGH injecting spiders.

I turned the water on in the shower, and pulled back the curtain. I like the water insanely hot, and give it a minute or two to warm up. When I moved the curtain there was a very large black furry spider.

Twice in one week is a bit insane. I failed at trying to keep the Hobo Spider's friend (or spouse, or lifetime partner) from visiting. He (or she, but definitely a he) might have been living here since last week. You can read about the previous experience with a spider, ready to eat me, at that link.

Killing spiders is bad luck. Don't believe me? I'll have you know James Henry Trotter's aunts killed a spider; and three days later a very large peach bowled them right over. They were dead from being squished by my least favorite fruit. If it can happen in a book, it can happen in real life. Almost definitely.

I am a strong independent woman. I can kill a spider. Maybe.

I know spiders don't like water so I chased it with water from the nozzle. Keeping a constant water stream on it. I figured it would only take a couple seconds for him to die.

WRONG! Oh, so very wrong.

I'm pretty sure the water made him stronger. And bigger. Maybe also a tad hairier. He began sprinting. All eight legs moving faster than Usian Bolt could dream of moving.

Okay, drowning the mega spider is not working. He is about one straight line from leaping out of the tub and jumping on my face. My shirt and shorts are also soaked from me playing with the water.

I need a better plan.

I have a couple friends from college who moved to California after graduation. Most of them live in the desert where large spiders and other creepy crawlies have invaded their homes.

They must know what to do. I quickly remembered they do not.

My one friend placed a large sand bucket over the spider and piled several books onto the bucket to keep the spider from wandering away. She left it there for five days before someone would kill it. That would work, except I can't place a bucket and books over a spider in the bath tub. I'm also not letting him stay here for five days.

My other friend refused to answer the phone.

Electrocuting the bad boy seems like the only solution. Except I have no way of zapping him. We do not live in Alabama or Mississippi where large bug zappers are needed every three feet. Even if I could get my hands on something that would electrocute the giant monster, there is a good possibility I would electrocute myself.

Besides, water and electricity do not mix. I did, however, think of filling up the tub with water, turning on my hair dryer and tossing it in. Mythbusters said it would not work.

I am seriously running out of options.

I contemplated calling my husband. But what am I going to say? Hi, uhh, there is a very large spider in the shower.

That would be right up there with calling my parents to say I was chased by a skunk in the middle of the afternoon. Eight years later I am still trying to live that down.

I know how insane it would be to call Chris at work to inform him of a spider. That falls under the category of waste of phone call. And what am I going to ask him to do? Leave work to take care of a tarantula's grandfather?

That is so beyond ridiculous, the Kardashians wouldn't even contemplate it. Calling your husband at work to take care of a spider? 1950 called, and wants their stereotypical female back.

Poison! I can use poison!

Right, well I'm not an evil mastermind genius. I don't have poison lying around. I've seen what happens when you mess up poisons. Instead of killing someone you turn him into a llama. And as cool as a llama would be, I don't want one in the shower. "Emperor's New Groove" anyone?

I do however, have cleaning products. One of the luxuries of living in the northwest is you have ten different types of bleach and other cleaners to fight the mold and mildew.

The spider has stopped trying to run from the water, and is hanging out close to the drain. There is no way he could fit down there.

Having hair stuck in the drain is gross enough, could you imagine a large spider? So poisoning him is not going to work.

I fail at being an evil mastermind.

After looking at the problem in as logical manner as I can; and keeping an eye on it, to ensure it did not wander to another part of the apartment. I decided the only thing I could do is flush it. But how to get the spider from the bathtub to the toilet without touching it?

DUSTPAN!

Taking an envelope and a dustpan, I finally got the adventurous spider onto it. I quickly moved to the toilet. After some coercing, the spider made its escape into the toilet, where it can swim.

Hobo Spiders swim! This one, in particular, swam very well.

I quickly flushed the toilet and made sure the spider made it down and out. To make sure it died I flushed three more times; in case he was holding firm to the side of a pipe or something.

Now all I have to watch out for is a very large peach rolling through Seattle, ready to stomp me dead.

Writing, Why I do it.

The first thing you learn about in life? Disappointment.

Disappointment is inevitable. It begins when your best friend is not home when you want to play. The toy in the cereal box is lame or your sibling got it first. The claw game took all your quarters, and you have nothing to show for it. The guy (or girl) you had a crush on doesn't like you, and the PF Flyers do not make you run faster or jump higher. You don't get into the college you wanted, you didn't get the job you hoped for, and your sports team just lost.

It stings more when that person is there to rub it in.

We all know that person. That person is the one that makes fun of your team for losing, or running around the arcade with the very awesome prize from the claw machine. It's that person who can run faster and jump higher when wearing PF Flyers. It's also the person that takes joy in your failures. Or will constantly complain about something.

Life is full of that person.

I had a teacher who was that person. I used to be friends with that person. Once in high school, and because I did not learn my lesson the first time, also in college. In the real world, that person is everywhere. It can be a coworker, a neighbor, anyone. I'm lucky enough that I, currently, do not have that person in my life. However, I hear their voices, smirking at my most recent failures.

These are the people I can't wait to rub their noses in my success. That's so beyond unhealthy.

So how to handle the failures of life?

I'm not an expert in this. I am like the worst person in the world at handling disappointment. I know I am trying to break into a field where disappointment is at every turn, and success is basically non-existent. So why am I doing this to myself? Why set myself up for disappointment?

I'm starting to think I enjoy it. I have a shoe box filled with letters basically telling me I am the worst writer to walk the planet. I argue the agents did not read Stephanie Meyer who brought us Tw(I can't bring myself to write the series name in my blog).

All joking aside, it's not easy to be a writer. On any given day you will find me slaving away at my computer; fighting with sentences, words, punctuation, and the English language. All for it to end with a letter telling me I'm not what they're looking for. Those are the nicely phrased ones. These letters have been dubbed the "You suck letters."

With every rejection there is that person asking if I have a job, asking why I even want to be a writer, since it seems soooo horrible. (Words with extended vowels are so in right now.)  

It is horrible. But it's also this thing I love to do. I have stories to tell. I hear voices in my head of characters. My husband thinks I'm nuts, because I've answered them. I also make some weird hand or head gesture, as I hold a conversation in my head between two or three people I do not know.

Apparently, this is a common occurrence with writers. Stephen King has admitted it.I was really hoping more stable authors had revealed this. Luckily, others have.

There is a story that I need to tell, and I will tell it.

It may not be the healthiest thing in the world, setting yourself up for disappointment. It messes with you.

On some days I do think I'm the world's worst writer. Other days, I am convinced I'm on my way to a Pulitzer. I'm apparently as moody and crazy as some well established authors. It's nice to know I'll have good company on the crazy train.

So why do I do it? I guess it's because there is nothing else I would rather do.

How to Identify and Kill Spiders

I do not have arachnophobia, I know this because I can see a spider in the same room, and not want to run out of it screaming.

This does not mean that I like spiders or am enthusiastic about killing spiders, especially the spiders of the northwest, who I am pretty sure belong to a gym, and take steroids or SGH (spider growth hormones).

Daddy Long Legs, and the small spiders in the Midwest I'm fine with. So fine with them that killing them with a Kleenex is not enough to make me want to gag.

Insert the SGH doping spiders of the northwest that build webs that extent the length of our patio, can be seen from across the street, and leave bites that last for up to a month, as evidenced by my friend's leg.

The spiders out here, cannot be killed with a wimpy three ply Kleenex. Oh, no. Out here, shoes have a hard time destroying the spiders that have invaded my apartment.

On Saturday night, Chris and I were hanging out in the living room after we got home from a friend's house. I was lying on the futon, when a large moving object caught my eye. I, living up to every stereotype of a female seeing a spider, screamed.

Chris looked over at me, trying to figure out what I could possibly be screaming about at 1 a.m.

"There is a giant spider under your chair," I told him.

He looked on the floor, and agreed that it was a very large spider. Probably the size of my palm, and weighing in at a zillion ounces, he stared me down with his beady eyes.

Chris got up to kill it, knowing that this spider's size exceeded the maximum spider size I am willing to feel squish in my hand.

I offered up one of my shoes to kill the bad boy, and Chris gratefully excepted. You know the spider is large when Chris agrees to using a shoe to kill it.

Three whacks, that's right. Three whacks with a shoe before the spider finally succumbed to its fate.

There is only one type of poisonous spider in Washington, that scientists are aware of, and it's located east of the mountains. 

However, the Hobo spider is alive and well in the Seattle area. Actually, our mostly cool wet climate is perfect for these guys to grow to epic proportions!

Hobo spiders are not poisonous, but if they bite you, you will itch, and you will have marks that looks like a vampire came after you. I know vampires are very in right now, and the bites will do wonders for your social life, especially if you give the fake vampire a sexy name, and say he has a sixteen pack.

So how to deal with this new breed of spider that is almost as large as the Arizona, Nevada tarantulas? I would say move to a region without giant spiders, but that's a tad overboard.

So I am now researching the Hobo Spider.

That is the spider that decided to visit us. That is the spider I am now convinced is living under the bed, waiting for me to sleep so it can crawl into my mouth and become one of those mythical eight spiders I will swallow this year. (Insert shiver)

When I was little I was told having a glass of water by the bed attracts spiders. Chris looked at me like I was nuts when I told him this many years ago. It's in fact not water that attracts spiders, but their natural curiosity.

And a warm room, with comfy carpet, and the flat screen TV probably also plays a part in luring the spider into the house.

So how do I keep this guy's friend from visiting? Apparently, lemon juice. I don't know if this will work, and I don't want to attract ants, so I might just take the wait and see approach.

Until then, I am armed with shoes, bats, and a reaching stick, so I can kill the giant from across the room.



Thoughts and Remembrance

In two days the calender will read September 11, 2011. It is a Sunday, and the weather forecast is 90 and sunny, that could turn into a beach day. It is the first full day of the NFL. And yes, it is also the ten year anniversary of September 11, 2001, just in case you live under a rock and didn't know.

This is the most difficult blog post to date. I've been trying to write this since 9 a.m. and it's now nearly noon and I'm nowhere close to being done.

 I've ranted and raved, I've called for action, I've demanded we all get on with our lives, I'm pretty sure I insulted everyone at one point. I've been on a deleting rampage, as I've sat here trying to make it sound like I'm not a lunatic. I've watched more 9/11 tributes on YouTube than is probably healthy. And I've sat here trying to figure out why I'm writing about Sept. 11.

And I've come to this conclusion: I have to. I apologize if this isn't as sensitive, or whatever else you were hoping for, but I'm doing the best I can. I'm only a writer.

September, the month when trees begin thinking of changing colors, and summer is still hanging around. Children and teachers are going back to school. College football and the NFL are beginning. Americans are happy when they have their football.

You begin thinking of apple orchards and cider mills. It's September! One of the nicest months of the year! Sunny and warm but with no mud like April, and not sweltering like July. It's not cold like October or November.

You take one last vacation, or go out on the boat one last time. You have barbecues, and bonfires, and try to catch the last lightning bug of the season.

Sept. 11 is a date. Prior to the year 2001, it was no different than Sept. 10 or Sept. 15. Except, now, like December 7, 1941 it has meaning.

We're coming up on the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, December 7, a date that will live in infamy. While, President Bush's speech didn't give us a powerful line like Roosevelt's did, Sept 11, or 9/11, will also live in infamy.

Like my grandparents can tell you where they were when Pearl Harbor was bombed I can tell you where I was when the announcement came that planes flew into the World Trade Center. I was fourteen, and in my second or third week of high school.

We were in the gym for an assembly, and then reported back to our second hour classes to kill time before our next period. I had gym, so we went across the hall to the room the wrestlers used for practice. The announcement came over the PA system that planes had crashed into the WTC.

Full disclosure, I didn't know what the WTC was. Yes, I knew of the towers, I just didn't know what they were called. I blame being a self centered teenager from the Midwest.

Unlike my grandparents who were given the news about Pearl Harbor from the radio. I was three blocks away, thanks to CNN, FOX News, NBC, ABC, and the Internet. Watching and rewatching the planes, the smoke, the people screaming, the fire, and feeling sick.

For hours we were glued to TVs.  From the time we heard the news until we went to bed we sat there silently, watching the news in disbelief as the towers fell, expecting the sky to fall with them. This did not have to be described, this was not a prepared news segment, with a script like in 1941.

We saw the smoke rise out of rubble at the Pentagon, and listened to reporters talk about the heroes in flight 93 who took down the terrorists, and themselves, in a field in Pennsylvania.

We heard the screams of people on New York streets, and the people covered in ash, dust, and dirt running for their lives. We saw people being carried out of rubble, jumping out of buildings, and firefighters running in. We watched as the towers fell, leaving the New York skyline, and ourselves empty.

We weren't the only country to feel the effects of the Attacks. More than 80 countries had someone working in the towers. Countries from around the world held memorial services for the victims. The guards at Buckingham Palace played our national anthem. A song about us defeating the them!

 Italy, Russia, Germany, Japan, countries we fought against 60 years before, reached out to help. Reached out with memorials of their own. For people they never met, for a city that had been shaken past its core, for a country who couldn't come to grips with it just yet.

It's just an example of how shaken the world was after the attacks. How we just wanted to grasp onto someone to make sure we were sill here.

If I were to make a list of everything we, as a nation, and as humanity, lost that day it would stretch from here to eternity. Believe me, I've tried.

Innocence was lost on 9/11, and unfortunately it wasn't the only thing we lost. I think we lost our sense of safety, our invincibility, our selfishness, the thoughts and ideas that we were better than our neighbor. We lost loved ones. I think we lost the inability to care because somebody's tragedy didn't effect us. Or their pain wasn't as great as our own.

We banned together, holding each other's hands during seventh inning stretches, while we sang God Bless America. We wrapped ourselves in our flag, and waved it from every building, light pole, balcony, and news stand we could find.

We were pissed and we were going to fight!

In the last ten years, the fight has left us. The flag is now a symbol of despair, rather than hope. People are out of jobs, prices are rising, houses are being foreclosed on, oil is being fought over, and our politicians are beyond a hot mess.

I feel like in the ten years since the WTC has fallen we're still focusing on what we lost. Our lost innocence, our loss of security, our loss in the global market, our loss of jobs. News segments are focusing on children who lost a parent.

I think the news is truly trying to depress us, and doing a hell of a job.

What about talking about what we gained? I know the wounds are deep, and I know we're going to be scarred for a long time. And it might take us forty years until we can think about Sept. 11 as a significant day in September without wanting to cry, or have three week news marathons about the event.

Or maybe, just maybe, we won't have to wait that long. Maybe, we can think of what we gained from the terrorist attacks, and just stop. Stop blaming, and hating, and thinking you are more important than everything and everyone else.

We're left to hold memory of those who did not survive, and it's not because we need to accomplish anything great. It's so we can accomplish what we started ten years ago. Being nice to each other, and fighting for what we want. Fighting for a country we can be proud of. Not just in war, but here at home.

I feel like we've been lying down, waiting for people to tell us it's okay to live again. It's okay to start living again, scars and all.

Perception vs. Reality of Adulthood

There is something that is so unbelievably awesome about being an adult children everywhere can't wait to get there.

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I'm pretty sure if a product came out on the market for children that offers them instant adultness there would be a mad scramble and a riot to get it.

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I remember being little and thinking it would be so cool to have a car, and no bed time, and no homework, nor having people tell me what to do all the time. If I were an adult, I could watch whatever I wanted on TV, eat whatever I wanted for dinner, never had to share my toys and do whatever I pleased.

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The perception of all of that is beyond amazing! That is like you can ride a unicorn, and keep it in your bedroom amazing!

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Time to break it down.

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Perception of car: You can go wherever you want whenever you want and can listen to whatever you want on the radio and a car just makes you amazing at life.

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Reality of car: While the freedom is nice, the car is also a money pit. You have to pay out the nose for gas to fuel the car, you need to get its oil changed, and make sure the brakes and engine are working. You also have to take the responsibility of not killing anyone while you drive around in a chunk of metal.

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Perception of bedtime: It does not exist

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Reality of bedtime: It doesn't exist, unless you are my husband who goes to bed about 10:30 everynight during the week. He also answers to an alarm clock.

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Perception of no homework: AMAZING.

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Reality of no homework: AMAZING!!!! But you now have to do things like pay bills. Lame!

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Perception of dinner and TV: Eat whatever you want, and watch whatever you want.

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Reality: True, but I don't eat icecream for dinner and breakfast like I thought I would. I'm disapointed in myself. It also sucks having to come up with dinner ideas.

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Perception of never having to share: Makes children everywhere dream of being an only child.

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Reality: You share everything, and not just toys but EVERYTHING, especially if you're married.

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Being a child does seem fun on some days, butt for the most part, there is stuff about being an adult that makes me want to dance around small children and sing "na na na na na naaa naaaaaah I'm an adult and you're noooooooooott!"

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When you see me walking with a limp, assume I've been kicked in the kneecaps by a four year old.