Me As a Writer

I am not an immediate writer. I am a painfully slow writer. It is after all a process. A long and deliberate process. A process whose key ingredient is time. For example, I cheated on my leg waxer last Friday, not yesterday. In that multi-day span, I:

- Had a lunch of fried vegetables followed by apple fritters.
- Saw a very be-dazzled musical version of The Wedding Singer.
- Found an Irish pub that serves the much sought after half pints of beer.
- Made oatmeal lace cookies, drizzled with chocolate of course.
- Gave tours at my historical spot of choice.
- Had dinner with two of my best friends.
- Learned the dance moves to Feist's 1 2 3 4.

Give me a week, and I may have the words to describe how to read in traffic. But don't hold your breath; I do have grades to bubble, a book festival to attend, newspapers to read, hot dogs to eat, and a niece to cuddle.

Pumpkin Eater

I cheated on my leg waxer. This is not surprising, I have never been steady with a hair dresser, a face wash, or even an ice cream flavor. I am not sure if it is the suppressed guilt or the synthetic pink wax, but my legs are going through hell.

You Know Who, Brave and True. Part 1.

The biggest spider known to pocket change crawled past my basement couch on Friday*. I screamed and ran up the stairs. Cold sweat trickled down my back as I realized the spider had backed me into a corner. My parents were out of town. My brother was out of town. My sister was out of town. My brother in law was 30 minutes away, home alone with the niece. My only other option, my best friend, was at her parents'. And she is a big, fat chicken. This is why we are best friends. We chickens flock together.

In the corner, my choices were cold, wet blankets: deal with the spider myself, or lose face by asking one of the neighbors to help me. The spider quickly grew from the size of a quarter, to the size of a dinner plate. With legs covered in poisonous hairs. And the ability to rip off a big toe with one bite.

Something had to be done. Something had to be done now. Because standing on a toilet seat until my dad answered the cell phone gave the spider the super spider ability to fly and spit venom. I can only imagine what camping in the three season room (protected from outside animals AND inside creepers) would have done for the spider.

Draped in spider protective gear - old running shoes and rubber gloves - I took the biggest, baddest, clearest glass bowl and tip-toed back to the spider's lair. Pelting ping pong balls, I lured the spider from his cave inside the wall and carpet crack. Inner instinct took over. I must have been a ninja in my past life. I am not sure how I moved from the face of fear to the face of the spider. It might have involved back hand springs and cartwheels. Or nervous walking.

Crouched on a chair, I centered the spider trap above it's victim. After a few deep, ninja needed breathes, I lowered the trap until my finger tips were mere inches from the blood sucking, mind reading spider. My fingers released. My eyes closed. A soft plop the only interruption to the cricket chorus.

Cool perspiration covered my face. I had done it. I had trapped the spider.

*Originally written as Saturday. But it was Friday, I think. The weekend nights all blend.

Lazy Sunday

I woke up early enough that I could go for a run before my sister came over for brunch. And here I am, T-45 minutes until eggs and bacon, and I am still wearing my pjs. I have read the fun parts of the paper. I have checked my email. I have finished last night's pizza. I have found my running socks.

I have not gone running.