It’s The Little Things: A Funny Spider Story

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I had a post about a product half-written for my Littlest Things weekly post. I kept trying to sit down and finish it, but after yesterday’s post, my heart just felt sad. And whenever that happens, all I want to do is laugh. And the best way I can think of laughing is to poke fun at myself. So I am going to toss all logic out the window and just share a funny thing that happened to me a couple of weeks ago.

First, you might need the backstory if you are new here. The short version is, I don’t kill Daddy Long Leg Spiders in my house. It is a craziness tradition passed down from my grandmother to my mother to me (although she recently told me she has begun to clear them out. Traitor). My husband goes along with it. In fact, he is the wrangler of the spiders. He moves them from spot to spot. With his barehands. Yep, he is a regular old enabler CowSpiderboy.

Second, my husband and I take baths together. This is the part where my children run through the house screaming and crying over too much sharing. But we do. In a completely platonic way. It is the best time to unwind and talk over our day. And we are guaranteed that we will not be interrupted.

Okay. Now that both of those disturbing and freaky facts are out of the way, we can finally begin:

My husband and I were taking a bath. We were conversing. And everything seemed to be going smoothly.

But halfway through the bath, my husband looked at me and a horrified expression broke out across his face. He was staring at the top of my head. There obviously was something on it.

I knew.

I knew that I was going to die.

“WHAT IS IT?!” I immediately screamed. Because panicking is what I do best.

Instead of answering my question, my husband gave me these instructions, “Don’t. Move.”

So, what would you do?

Would you sit there calmly not knowing what was on your head? Would you wait for an explanation?

Or would you do what I did and lose your mind?

I shrieked, “IS IT A BLACK WIDOW?!”

You are probably wondering why I would immediately jump to Black Widow. And I am going to have to answer, I have no flipping idea. No, we do not have an infestation of Black Widows… At our house. Yes, we do have an infestation of crazy… In our minds.

No reply.

“IS. IT. A. BLACK. WIDOW???!!!

Still no reply.

So, at this point I know. I know I have a black widow on my head and it is going to bite me. And I am going to die. My head all bloated and disfigured in the bathtub. My naked body wrinkled and cold waiting for the coroner to come.

I began to thrash and scream. I was trying to drown the black widow in the bathtub. If I was going to be humiliated, I was taking the little sucker down with me.

My husband quickly jumped out of the bathtub. He calmly told me to stop moving around.

“AM I DEAD?! DID IT BITE ME?!” I managed to scream in between dunking my head over and over into the water. Water was sloshing everywhere. My head was getting banged against the faucet. I am a treat. A downright gift to marriage.

All of a sudden my husband grabbed my legs from outside the bathtub. Then he dragged me feet first and yanked me onto the cold tile floor.

First, can I tell you how much that hurt? My back will never be the same.

I was sobbing.

And let’s pause for a moment and reflect on the fact that this scenario is happening in the buff.

You’re welcome.

I couldn’t feel where I had been injected, but I knew my head must be the size of a watermelon. “WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE? CALL 9-1-1! MAYBE THEY CAN GIVE ME AN ANTIDOTE!”

My husband was stoically quiet.

“WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING ME? I’M DEAD! CALL 9-1-1!”

Still ignoring me. Still quiet. He was staring into the churning water that had just moments before been a peaceful sanctuary.

“Is it dead?” I managed to mutter in-between rocking myself on the hard floor.

I wiped my eyes and peered into the bathtub. I couldn’t find the Black Widow.

I didn’t see anything.

“Where is it?”

Then another horrifying thought occurred to me and I lurched to my wobbly feet. “IS IT STILL ON ME? OH MY GOD! GET IT!”

My husband was in a quiet ponder. He just pointed to a tiny shape in the bathtub. It looked like a small wadded up ball of string.

“It’s right there.”

“That’s the Black Widow?!”

It sure didn’t look like one.

My husband sighed. “There was no Black Widow. It was just a Daddy Long Legs.”

If one month ago, you felt the Earth tilt on its orbit, shudder, and then keep on spinning, please know that that was just my emotions catching up with my brain. Or maybe the following syllable being screeched. “WHAT?!”

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“WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY THAT? You know I’m not scared of Daddy Long Legs!” I paused. “And why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t a black widow?”

My husband looked resigned as he scooped the tragic fellow of my tale from the tub. “You didn’t give me a chance. You just started freaking out.”

“Well, you made me freak out when you wouldn’t answer me.”

It was at this point my back that had been dragged across the side of the bathtub began to throb. “And my back! Why did you drag me out of the bathtub?”

“I thought you were going to drown yourself. You should have seen it. You were flailing. You were going to get hurt.”

I rubbed my back, “Yea. Well. Next time, just say it’s a Daddy Long Legs. Then none of this would have happened.”

I said, “next time,” because it’s us. There will always be a next time.

I mean with as many Daddy Long Legs I keep in my house, it was only a matter of time before one made it into a fashion post. Poor fellow. All he wanted to be was a hat. I prefer them much better when they are just pretending to be art on the wall.

I’m quite terrified some of them are going to gather together and make me a necklace.

Hey! I’m just like Cinderella.

Only without a fairy godmother.

Or a glass slipper.

Although, I do have plenty of chores to do. And creatures at my beck-in-call.

Let’s just hope I never get invited to a ball.

I shudder to think what those spiders will come up with as a dress.

Besides, I don’t think my poor prince husband or my back can take any more fashion assistance from our eight-legged guests.

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It’s the little things: a funny story coming from terror. Or learning something new about yourself.

Have you had a similar thing happen to you? Do you kill the spiders in your home? Did you learn any life lessons this week?

My husband has. He has definitely learned some valuable lessons from all of this.

1. He married a crazy person.

2. That crazy person wants to keep spiders all over the house.

3. When one of those spiders crawls onto her she will immediately freak out and attempt a drowning suicide.

4. Relaxing baths should just be called baths around here.

5. He should have been a cowboy.

Shapeshifter Me

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Call it a rant. Call it me opening up. Venting. Just sharing what it feels like to have a dramatic weight loss. I can only hope by me being completely 100% open, it helps one person today. Because you are all beautiful. And we, each one of us, struggles with something. I recognize that there are those of you struggling right now with a diet. I know. It is hard. And I have been there. Will always be there. Each and every day. Struggling.

I know there are people out there that see past the scale when it comes to measuring a person’s worth. My husband is one of those individuals. And for that, I love him. And for so much more, I love him.

If you are one of those rare individuals who do not see a number when looking at a person, I thank you.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

Here it is. The unedited me:

After years of being heavy, I was quite used to being ignored by people. It sucks. It’s sad that weight matters to so many people. But it does. I can tell you from experience that it does. And some people are not nice about it either.

There were good things about being heavy. I learned to blend in. I could quietly observe. Quietly judge (this being my own flawed characteristic and obviously not a characteristic of all heavy people. Thank God).

And, oh, was I good at judging.

The very best, you see. Bad habit. The worst. Trying to quit. Is there a patch for that?

But, I digress.

I could go to the supermarket and no one would speak to me. I would walk down the street and not one head would turn and not one eye would blink. Let alone wink.

And it was peaceful.

And I never even noticed it was happening. Or not happening.

But then I lost weight. And I was exactly the same person. But for some odd reason, people treated me as an entirely new one.

And it sucked.

Nobody warns you this will happen. The crappy part of weight loss.

The inevitable conversations. The putting down of the old you.

The, “You look SOOOOOO much better.”

“Wow! I didn’t even recognize you!”

“I wish I had your discipline. I’m so fat.” And I want to shake them. And hug them. And tell them I think they are beautiful. Because I do. Because weight is not important to me. And I don’t know what to say. Because all I did was lose weight. That’s it, folks. It did not make me Leader Of The Skinny Body Crusade.

I want them to realize that it’s me. It’s still me. The girl without the discipline. The same flawed girl. Who struggles every single day. Who has the same damn problems as them. Who absolutely does not have all of the answers. Sometimes. None. At. All. Who might judge. But who would never judge someone’s weight. Or what they eat. And I hate that looking at my new body makes some people question their own. And feel bad. And feel like they have to explain their bodies to me. I have a conversation like this one at least once a week. And it makes me want to track down the true Leader Of The Skinny Body Crusade…and do some serious judging on that misguided soul.

“What does your husband think?”

The askers of this question are my favorite, because they almost always answer their own question with, “I bet he thinks he got a whole new wife!”

And then they stand there waiting for an answer to the answer they have just given themselves.

Men are obsessed with this question and answer game. I just stand there blinking. And I imagine they are the Leader Of The Skinny Body Crusade if they also add, “Lucky him!” Or in one case when a man actually said to my husband, in front of me, “I guess you’ll keep her now.” Oh, that poor leader. The things I do to him in my head. “Lucky” would not be quite the word I use to describe those things.

The crazy part is, I was happy being heavy. This seems to be such a foreign concept to people that I mostly keep it to myself.

And chuckle.

Okay. Not happy. There are a lot of bad things that go along with being heavy. And I suffered all of them. And I was not happy about it. In fact, I was pretty miserable.

I hated not being able to wear the clothes I wanted to wear.

I hated the unhealthy aspects that went along with the extra weight.

I hated that I did not fit into society’s box of “beautiful.” And then I wondered who built that damn box? Was it that leader again? Boy has he been busy. Or was it all of us?

I hated the way people treated me. That is what depressed me. And made me doubt myself. And become the judgier judgiest judge of others.

But the way I looked? Nope. Never bothered me. Or more correctly put would be to say, I was comfortable in my own skin. I always have been. No matter how much skin I have at the time.

So, I lost the weight. I get to share all of the fun new clothes I get to wear. It is fun. And it is exciting. And I love it. And I am happy. And I am comfortable in my own skin.

Still.

Always.

What makes me uncomfortable is not knowing how to behave as a “skinny” person.

Not understanding why this body gets more attention than the old one.

Why people are nicer. It boggles my mind. But it is true.

I hate that.

I do not know how to react to people. There is a whole new language to learn. A different social understanding to reach. And skinny people? They have been in the club for years. There is no room for a rookie. Or time to teach the dialect and actions of the average waist. I have always been a terrible learner. Especially when the material is the width of your belly and the textbooks are the mere letter on the tag of your shirt.

I find myself lost in translation.

Awkward.

Not knowing where I fit in.

It’s just a body. We all have one. I have just taken on many forms with mine.

I guess I am a real-life shapeshifter.

I have been able to sneak my way into scenarios that only half of the world ever gets to experience at one time. And I have lived both halves. In both scenarios. In this world. In one life.

And I can report skinny is not always better.

Of course, being heavy isn’t either.

Why does it have to be such a strong division? Why does one way of life have to be different from the other? Who decided that our girth would be our worth?

I yearn to take a backseat. To not have random men try to hug me. Or randomly strike up conversations with me. Then I wouldn’t misinterpret what they’re saying. I sometimes feel like an alien that has landed on this planet. Everything is so different on the side of skinny.

And it shouldn’t be.

I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.

There are no words to describe the puzzlement I feel at each encounter where I am treated differently because my pants’ size shrank.

No measurement to equate the mass of my soul.

I know I will never comprehend the language of the folks who speak with weighted tongues. Who seem to view the form of your body as a misguided representation of the form of your soul. Who place so much value on how little there is of you that they don’t see how much bigger they could be. In their hearts.

So I might be lighter.

But I’m heavier, too.

What body language do you speak?

Me, myself?:

“All of them.

And none at all.”

Target In January

I recently went to Target. As I do. When I want to buy a mindless variety of unnecessary items.

The reason I had gone there was because in my rummaging cleaning, I found 4 gift cards totaling $100 to Target in my drawer. They were given to me over the last few months as my kids would get them as gifts and then order something off of Amazon and pay me with their Target gift cards. I didn’t mind. I knew I would use them. Or lose them. Whichever came first. I decided to get on using them before I forgot.

With the holidays just recently being over and it being the beginning of the year, a lot of us are not spending money. I wanted to show some inexpensive options Target is offering right now, in case you wanted something new, but did not want a high price tag to struggle with.

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I didn’t mean to go to the clothing section. Cross my heart. But that is where I ended up. And I saw the best shirt. Seriously. Run. Don’t walk. And go get yourself this shirt. The only sizes left in black at our Target were XS and Large. I bought a Large for myself (fits perfectly) and an XS for my daughter (now you see why they don’t mind paying me with their gift cards).

The shirt is $16.99 and so similar to the more expensive shirts in my wishlist. See here. And here. Plus, you get 5% off if you use their Target Red Debit Card. It also came in the prettiest seafoam green color. But I needed a black shirt. The back has the pretty key-hole.

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Does this remind you of anything? How about my Ruffled Hem Pullover? This was less than 1/4 of that price?! I do like my Anthropologie sweater better. The back is more detailed. But this Target sweater was a great price. At $20, this was a nobrainer and my daughter got one, too. I bought the medium in this although I think I could have even gotten a large. It matches my AG Stevies Cords perfectly.

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And this awesome poncho pullover is so cool! At $20, it is simple to throw on. It is the easiest black and white stripes. Goes with so much. It covers the bum. Another steal. Another win for Target. By the way, I have no idea what is on my thigh. I had put those pants on for the very first time five minutes prior to this pic.

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I did not buy either of these sweaters. Not at Anthropologie. Not at Target. I do not own a French Bulldog, so it wasn’t for me. There was a popback of this sweater at Anthropologie last week and I would have ended up paying the same amount as the Target price. But I didn’t need it. So I didn’t buy it.

I just have to say… Umm. I’m not sayin’ this is a blatant copy of Anthropologie’s sweater. What do you think? Wink. If you missed it at Anthropologie, Target’s copy is $20.

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Gnomes!!! Look at these little darlings. I love ’em. I want to marry them. I want to rub their cold little hard bodies all over my cheeks. I want to… Okay. Let’s quit there. $4 a piece (just the 4 crackled versions in the pot). Adorable.

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And a big one to greet folks at the door. I only wish they had two more of him.

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And a sad, sad little fellow. He looked so forlorn, I had to take him home to cheer him up. He still isn’t happy. I have a feeling he never will be. But he is a pretty color. Blue. Just like his heart.

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This awesome crockpot was marked down from $35 to $17.48. How cool is it? I cannot wait to use it!

Have you been to Target lately? Do you always walk away with more than you came for? The buyers there are doing it right!

* Some pictures shown here were taken from Target and Anthropologie’s websites.

The Lazy Mom’s Salad

Who knew? Who knew my kids would have a fondness for spinach? Certainly not me.

I did not try spinach until about five years ago. I was terrified of the stuff. Here is what I knew about spinach that prevented me from trying it:

When eaten your body would become grossly disfigured causing monstrous veiny muscles to spontaneously burst out upon your arms.

When cooked it would shrivel away into a slimy green paste that resembled nothing of its former self.

It is green.

So I stayed clear of spinach. No thank you. “Olive Oil go rescue yourself and stop being so annoying. And, no, I am not eating spinach. Especially to save you.” There I said it. Oh, you know you were thinking it.

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But I tried it as a salad. I loved it. It is so velvety and mild. I thought perhaps my children would love it, too.

And they did.

And they do.

More than me.

More than my husband.

More than Pop…

No, not more than him. Their bodies don’t combust for the stuff.

Thank God.

I won’t make a salad unless it is easy. Dinner is all ready so time consuming. Here is how I always make my salad, 3-4 times a week. We never get tired of it.

Ingredients:

5 – 6 oz. of prewashed baby spinach (best flavor I have found is Safeway or Vons O Organic) or prewashed romaine lettuce
1/3 cup Italian dressing (whichever is cheapest)
1/3 cup feta cheese

Optional for the less lazy:

Chopped red bell pepper
Chopped sun-dried tomatoes

Directions:

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Dump salad in a bowl. Sorry. Forgot to take a picture of it in the bowl. But here it is before that step. All innocent. It doesn’t even know what’s going to happen to it.

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Measure feta. Dump feta in the bowl.

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Measure Italian dressing. Dump the dressing in the bowl. Toss.

And try not use the word dump while you are cooking. Just a thought. A suggestion. Don’t take offense or poke my eye out! “A-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga!”

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That’s it. Three ingredients. If this salad could talk it would say, “I am what I am and that’s all that I am. Or all that’s in me.”

You could also dump (Sorry. Couldn’t resist) in the optional ingredients at this point. But be warned that most kids don’t like the extra ingredients.

Now go rescue Olive Oil take a nap. Cause that was exhausting.

“A-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga!”