Wild Kingdom: Basement Edition
I regularly dream of spiders, scripted as follows: Dream!Rachel is slumbering, when - *cue Jaws-appropriate soundtrack* - arachnids of ungodly sizes, legs a-wiggle, descend from the ceiling towards my horrified face. The ensuing response typically involves a) screaming until I wake up and b) fleeing from the bed in a blind panic, bruising knee-caps and shins on whatever obstacles(/walls) block my escape from the bedroom. Jon bore witness to such a fit last Friday night (though I don't remember it, he says that I was shouting at him to save me from the spiders) and NSP - poor snugglebutt - was unconsciously flung from the safety of my armpit to the floor on Monday. I suspect that the increasing frequency of these dreamsnightmares coincides with my new basement-dwelling lifestyle, which - while super-cute - is an apparent haven for bug-a-boos. NSP has proven to be a reasonably effect bug-prevention tool - often found in feline rapture, bug-parts dangling from his whiskers - but a girl can only ask so much of her cat. (Read: NSP cannot reach the ceiling.) Thus, within the first week of my habitation, I was already bribing the UPS man into my living room in the hopes that he would dispose of an epic - (a diameter of nearly twelve centimetres! and eight legs, people...EIGHT!) - spidey on the ceiling.My preferred method of pest removal involves Tupperware, as I'm afraid that squashing the offending parties would kill my vegan street cred. (Though, in accordance with the "natural order" of things, I have been known to point out critters to the ever-hungry NSP.) Alas, my [reluctant] good will is one-sided; I have since learned that certain insects - house centipedes, for example - do not respond well to confinement. And tend to move very fast. Ditto with spider crickets, a type of insect that I was formally introduced to earlier this morning. Crickets appear innocuous enough - I've no qualms about scooping them up in my hands - but spider crickets are unscoopable fuckers with a penchant for jumping. That said, today's morning routine involved several minutes of manic head-shaking (accompanied with the default shrieks-of-bug-induced-terror), as I was certain that the bitch had jumped straight into my hair.I shake out my shoes every morning.An irrational phobia? Absolutely. Spiders are teensy and Rachel is not-so-much. Still, I'd argue that logic holds no weight when it comes to things with eight legs. Unholy beasts.--------------------------On the brighter side of things, despite finding true peace in the hundreds of items donated to our local Salvation Army during last month's move, I filled up my car with happy thrift finds during today's lunch break: Gratuitous clothes, Madonna's "True Blue" album on vinyl, a VHS copy of "Muriel's Wedding", the Rock's autobiography, a three-book biography on Hitler (justified by my pretending that these are a gift for the Jon), a souvenir pie plate (hurrah for South Carolina!), cheapie costume jewelry and a pair of high-top Chucks spray-painted gold, black and red. Because you never know when the need will come up. Mine is a shameless addiction.