This morning, I saw a spider crawling across the ceiling of the bathroom. It had that particularly leggy look that Brown Recluses have (I know there’s another way to tell that they’re Brown Recluses, some mark on their back or something, but it’s the long skinny legs that always tip me off), so I looked around for a way to kill it. We didn’t have a fly swatter upstairs (and I don’t think a fly swatter would have reached the ceiling, anyway) and I was afraid that if I came downstairs to get the Dyson handheld, the spider would disappear. Finally, I saw the broom hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and I clipped the dustpan over the bristles, and tried to squash the spider.
I got it about half-squashed, and then decided to knock him to the floor, where I could finish the squashing and toss him in the toilet and then flush (and yes, that’s like 38.6 gallons of water that’s totally WASTED, but you must always flush the dead poisonous spider or it will come back to life, crawl out of the toilet, and come to find you). So I scraped the dustpan along the ceiling, expecting that the spider would kind of stick to the edge of the dustpan and… he disappeared. He wasn’t on the dustpan, nor was he on the bristles, and I couldn’t see him on the floor anywhere. I grabbed the flashlight and shone it in every conceivable spot and he was nowhere to be seen.
So what I’m telling you is that there’s a half-crippled, possibly rabid, REALLY pissed off Brown Recluse on the loose, and he’s coming for me.
Should I go ahead and pick out Fred’s next wife now, y’think, or just let him be a merry widower for a while and then he can pick out his own wife?
Man, I don’t think I’d be Princess Kate (or whatever the hell they’re calling her. The Duchess of something-or-other. You know, Wills’s WIFE. You remember the wedding from sometime last year, I presume?) for a million dollars and a tiara. First they were dating and all the entertainment magazines were howling for a wedding. Then the wedding was announced and the entertainment magazines were frothing for details of the dress and all that. Now they’re screaming for a pregnancy. How much stress must that put on a newlywed couple, particularly the bride? She goes out in something the slightest bit less than form-fitting or had a late night and slumps a little, and they’re all “BUMP WATCH! WHEN IS THE BABY DUE?”. She wears something that IS form-fitting and they’re all “PRINCESS KATE IS WAY TOO SKINNY, THE PALACE IS CONCERNED!”, all rife with “quotes” from “insiders” about how “the queen” is all “That bitch is too skinny! How’s she gonna carry an heir and a spare when she’s got no meat on her bones?!”
If I were Princess Kate, I’d have a daily announcement to the tabloids. I’d come out onto the balcony, all dressed to the nines with my tiara (she has her own tiara, I hope) and make a speech.
“Paparazzi! I am not, at this moment, pregnant. I did have an extra slice of pizza last night, thus the bloat. Please move along, nothing to see here! Pip pip!”
(Don’t I have an excellent British accent?)
Isn’t he off with the Royal Army/ Air Force/ Navy/ Marines or something? Wasn’t there a big fuss about how Kate’s ALL ALONE but she’s managing to muddle through? See, obviously I’m not paying enough attention to the royals. Back when Diana and Charles were first married, I devoured every single bit of information I could about her. I have the book that came out right after they were married, and though she’s gone (and the happily-ever-after was bullshit anyway), I can’t quite bring myself to donate the book or pack it away. I know she had her issues, but DAMN I loved me some Princess Diana.
I still can’t believe she’s gone.
Pip pip!
Previously
2011: No entry.
2010: No entry.
2009: (What can I say? They were priced REALLY well, and I’m a sucker for cat toys.)
2008: “So, would you want a pregnant cat?” she asked hopefully.
2007: It can’t happen soon enough, if you ask me.
2006: Taking the week off.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: “Helloooooo, Fancypants! Hey, buddy, whatchoo doin’?” I said in my special Fancypants voice.
2002: Know what I’m thinking? Psycho stalker, desperate to come into the house, rape and rob us and leave us for dead, stealing the computers and the big-screen TV on the way out.
2001: I should have stayed in bed this morning.
2000: No entry.