Touched By A Spider

I saw the spider before I stepped into the shower. It wasn’t huge, maybe nickel size. I could have removed it, but didn’t need to. The water current would soon send it down the drain, which had happened the day before, I think with another spider, but you never know. Maybe this was the same spider back for revenge. You know how they do that.

Yesterday, I’d marveled at how the current covered the entire tile floor, pulling in the spider at the edge of the stream, sweeping it along in a graceful swirl pattern—all the while its eight legs wildly strumming—then suddenly disappearing. Thus, when I stepped in today, I figured the same drain sequence would unfold.

It didn’t. The spider had found the no-stream zone, a refuge near the wall with the shower head. No matter how I angled the stream, it would not reach the spider. Obviously, this was a gifted and talented spider. I pushed the shower head more and even kicked water in the spider’s direction, hoping to bump it into the current washing by. It drew in its legs and became a dark blob, an unmoving dark blob. I kept my eye on it as I washed my face, best I could. Its legs popped out. To my surprise, I felt relief. It was still alive. I wanted it to live. It deserved to live. Its struggle for life had been so compelling.

It wasn’t a wash hair day so my shower would soon end. With a quick glance at my shower pal I realized the spider looked different from moments ago. Only six legs were now visible and they were all to one side, making it look like a tiny squid. I wondered if the spider would again pop to life, springing up with all legs out in the right places. It didn’t. I turned off the water and studied it. It still looked wet and heavy. I dried off and grabbed a cotton swab. Perhaps if I gently poked it—the equivalent of arachnid CPR—it would start moving.

The moment the swab touched the spider, I knew it was dead. The drenched blob moved only where I pushed it. My heart sank. I rolled it onto the swab and gave it a proper burial in the nearby porcelain urn. I flushed, sending the spider round and round in its final swirling pattern. I stared after it once it was gone. What had just happened to me, to have been so moved by a spider?

Random Acts of Weirdness

I said to my 13-year-old son, “Paul, you left the tortillas on the counter and the bag open.” I looked to the family room where he was sitting on the couch reading a magazine. A half-full bottle of orange Gatorade was balanced on his head. “Paul, why is there a Gatorade bottle on your head?”

He replied, “Why is there not a Gatorade bottle on your head?”

I paused. “Good point.” I put the tortillas away for that one.

Paul can pull off random acts of weirdness. So what’s the difference between funny weird and weird weird, you know, like the boy who used to flip up his eyelids in class?

Clean Language

I was in my bedroom. My 12-year-old who was doing the dishes yelled down the hall, “Mom, where’s the sponge for washing dishes?”

“In the dishwasher!” You know how you're supposed to run them through a cycle to de-gross them?

Nothing but silence came back. Then a quiet, “Oh, the irony.”

Did he say irony? Yes! I smiled. My new superhero, Irony-man.

The Dangers of Working At Home

I was researching high school mountain bike racing for a story when hunger or boredom or the need to change positions distracted me. Rice Crispy treats would fix everything. The recipe appeared on my screen. I had the ingredients on hand: Rice Crispies were on sale yesterday so I'd bought two boxes and I have mini-marshmallows since it’s hot cocoa season. You can use mini-marshmallows. The recipe says so. It was a sign.

In less than ten minutes I’d made them, devoured the Crispies crust in the bowl and consumed three still pliable squares. Back to writing. First, though, I think I'll make peppermint tea to complement the lingering sweet aftertaste. Then back to work. I promise. Although maybe I should go for a walk now. 

I just saw my oldest son off to college. We hugged at the airport. Upon releasing, he lingered on my face, his head tilted down from his 6'4" stature. The last time we held each other's gaze that long he was looking up from my arms as I nursed him. I think he was searching my face for tears, but I had none. That was uncharacteristic and I wonder where I will be and what I'll be doing when it hits me.