Excuse me, Ma'am, Do You Have a Permit for That Whisk?

 
    Shew! I had a setback last week. In the midst of celebrating the independence of our great nation, I almost relinquished my independence from arachnophobia when I noticed a huge red bump on my right index finger. It was hard and painful, and it popped up out of nowhere! I was positive it was a brown recluse bite, and all of my old obsessive fears returned! My brain was immediately flashing images of my future... in a hospital...having my finger removed...maybe my entire hand. I was up googling symptoms for hours when it occurred to me just how long it had been since I'd gotten so paranoid.
      Seriously, this was an almost disabling fear a few years back. At least twice a day, I thought about how I could avoid the bite of the brown recluse and black widow spiders. I don't know if it was because my apartment was in a wooded area at the time (and heavily populated with spiders), or I'd simply spent too much time watching Animal Planet, but I was majorly obsessed with those damn spiders. When the time came to leave my little woodland cottage apartment and move back to my hometown, I dreaded the packing because all the empty boxes I needed were in this unlit storage space above my kitchen (the kind where you have to pull a chain to open up the ceiling and then reach for the ladder to unfold, yada yada). I knew good and well, thanks again to Animal Planet, that recluses and widows often resided in such a place. Naturally, I took the necessary precautions.
     It was July mind you, as I dressed in a turtleneck pulled up to my chin, tied an old flowered scarf of my grandma's over my face cowboy style, added my reading glasses to protect the eyeballs, a ball cap, and most important, my Dad's old tube socks as protective gloves pulled up to my elbows. I climbed up the ladder, all the while thinking of a black widow I found near my front door a few days prior. It occurred to me that its pincers could possibly penetrate through the tube sock gloves, so I hastily climbed back down the ladder and put on oven mitts as well. One by one, I took great pains to shake out the boxes and launch them down to the floor in one smooth motion. Surely if there were any hidden spiders, the shaking and barraging would send out the message that I wasn't messing around. I was prepared for battle, and I would come out unscathed.
     Of course, when you move, you'll find plenty of stuff not worth packing, so I had to make the journey to the apartment dumpster several times...in my protective gear. Thank God it was dark out because my neighbors could have derived any number of conclusions from my bizarre behavior and "uniform". I was so focused on spiders, I almost forgot about the raccoons that dined there every evening. Don't get me wrong, I loved watching them from my window every evening, but I never tried to make friends. Rabies isn't any more appealing than flesh killing spider venom, ya know. So, I was sure to clear my throat several times, hum some random "please don't eat me" songs,  and stomp my feet a little as I walked to let them know I was coming. Trust me, you don't want a startled raccoon flying out of the garbage bin at you at midnight.
     On my last trip to the dumpster, probably around 3am, once every spider free box had been packed and sealed, I felt like I had cheated a certain death...Well, at least I'd avoided a painful trip to the ER and days to weeks of sickness with possible loss of limbs or large chunks of flesh.  I was so tired I had to adjust my eyes to the darkness a few times on my way back toward the steps leading to my apartment door. Just then, on the edge of the middle step, I saw a wolf spider the size of my hand! I couldn't get to my door without stepping over it! I was jolted alert, a little panicked, and completely unsure as to how I was going to get back into my apartment. True, a wolf spider wouldn't do as much harm as my evil nemeses the widow and recluse, but, whoa! This thing was huge! Finally, in perhaps my greatest act of bravery to this date, I backed up, took a breath, and began a momentum building run which enabled me to leap over most of the steps and onto the landing. I busted through the door, but my relief only lasted a moment, because I knew....I knew he was still out there. I imagined myself drifting off to sleep as the wolf spider found a way into the house. I wondered about the urban myth that you swallow so many spiders in your life time, and knew it would be super painful if a furry, hand sized spider tried to crawl into my gaping mouth as I snored away. No! I couldn't let that happen.
     I tried to think fast. There was no way in hell I was going to attempt stepping on this spider. No. He was too big and too quick. I pictured him crawling up my leg in attack mode. I was going to have to kill it ninja style...with the heaviest and most deadly kitchen utensils I could find in my already sealed boxes. I tip toed out my door with a wire whisk and two mixing beaters, took another run, and leaped from the top step to the bottom landing, super hero style, pivoting quickly to face the enemy. I hurled a beater and then the whisk, and the thing barely even moved! "Oh crap," I said to myself, "I've just pissed him off!" I decided I needed to get a tiny bit closer, although, I have to say, my beater hurling skills were pretty impressive. I surprised even myself at that. From only a foot away, I hurled my last beater as hard as I could, and he scurried into a hole just beside my steps. I couldn't let it end there. I knew where he lived, he knew where I lived, and he had my right mixing beater. Okay, he wasn't actually holding my mixing beater ('Cause that would just be crazy!), but it was way way way too close to his house for me to get it now. At this point, and I'm not proud of this, I took a can of insect spray and emptied it into the hole. 
     The next afternoon, with the sun shining bright, I saw a few legs sticking out from the hole. I was brave enough to poke them with a very long stick. There was no movement. I fashioned some tong action by adding another stick and pulled him out of the hole. He was D-E-A-D dead, and I felt immediately terrible. I mean, he was frozen stiff. I didn't think spiders experienced rigor mortise. Maybe they don't, and the 3/4th can of insect killer just literally petrified him. Either way, I had the taste of bug spray in my mouth for at least two days after. I'm sure that ingested poison will manifest into some sort of karmic justice for the innocent wolf spider someday. It was totally unnecessary to go to the lengths I did, but I was frightened and horribly arachnophobic. Oh the awful things we do in fear and haste! This has been my true confession. May the spiders of the world forgive me...especially the poisonous ones. Oh, by the way, that red bump on my hand went away. I guess it was just a mosquito bite. Whew! What a waste of psychotic energy. Thank goodness I have so much on reserve!

   http://mandyleachjustice.vemma.com/

Don't Be Alarmed, and Don't Splash Me!

http://mandyleachjustice.vemma.com/

       My apologies for the brief absence, dear five faithful readers (bless you)! This attic of mine has been vacant for a few weeks thanks to some summer sickness. Alanis Morissette would call it ironic that the week my dream of a pool in the backyard came to fruition, I developed bronchitis and an inner ear infection. "No pool for you!" said my doctor. Actually, what he said was, "Wow! I wish I could take a picture of that ear! That's a doozy. Now, don't be alarmed if you hear a loud popping sound and blood or other gunk starts to ooze out." Yeah, I found that tidbit of information to be pretty alarming!
      When I got home, I swallowed my first antibiotic and took a shot of cough medicine as I looked longingly into my turquoise 12x3 oasis in the backyard.  It felt like the sixth grade patrol trip to Washington, DC all over again. Well... minus the HBO. They didn't have parental controls back in the 80's, you know. Can you imagine the wide eyes of four 6th grade girls catching a glimse of "9 and 1/2 Weeks"? It was horrifying! But I digress. All the kids were looking forward to swimming in the hotel pool at The Best Western, but when the time came, I had to stay on the shallow end, all by my lonesome, waving to friends on the other side of the pool as I reminded them not to splash me. I had the first of now two ear infections in my whole entire life, and my doctor strictly forbid it. At the time, it felt like the end of the world. You'll be glad to know I coped much better this time around! I only cried about it twice.
          I'm mostly better now with the exception of the lingering sniffles and mild hearing impairment. So back to the attic I return and just in time for my 32nd birthday next Tuesday. This time in my life seems like a bit of a struggling transition period, but, wow! If little girl me could see "grown up" me, and I use that term loosely, she would be blown away! -Not because of any educational or professional accomplishments. Heck, I still can't cut a straight line to save my life, and I use the cheating method to tie my shoelaces (make two rabbit ears and tie them in a knot). No, and not because I have a super cute husband who is hopelessly devoted to me for reasons still unknown, although, he is definitely both. No, I think little girl me would be most impressed that I have not one but three fat cats, a step doggy, two fish tanks, and, you guessed it, the creme de la creme: a swimming pool! Lord knows there's nothing more humbling to a 31 year old chubby girl than trying to gracefully hoist yourself onto a float in a 12x3 pop up pool, but five year old me would think that was AWESOME. So, happy birthday, little girl me. Your dreams came true! Now it seems it's time for big girl me to blow out the candles and dream even bigger.


   
***This week's book recommendation: "The Friday Night Knitting Club" and sequel, "Knit Two" by Kate Jacobs. These are the kind of books you don't want to end! I hope someday I can write books that make readers feel that way!***

Leaping Leisure!

     The year 2009 will never be listed as a favorite of mine. It may be my least favorite. The hippie dippie optimist in me says, "Hey, one day you'll understand why you had to struggle, and you'll be grateful for the experiences that led you to this place." The pessimist in me suggests many worse things could happen and probably will, so I should hold off on the ranking. While those two duke it out, I'll spare all the details of the step mom challenges, newlywed feuds, home buyer's remorse, ex from hell stories, new company growing pains, job burnout, and worst of all, the miscarriage. I know, right? Who wants to ride that tide? So, it's no surprise that on Christmas Eve when my husband surprised me with a $100 gift card to a local spa, I pulled a Tom Cruise couch stunt and shed tears of joy.
      Fast forward to May 2010. I had been saving that card for months, waiting for things to calm down in each department of my life. I was determined to make this day at the spa last...at least an entire day! There was no way I wanted to walk out the doors of the spa and jump back into a frying pan of gut wrenching, hair expelling, skull in a vice feelin', jaw dislocatin' STRESS, so I waited. Then I waited some more. At last, when it seemed like all was calm and there was very little chance of crisis in the workplace or at home, I scheduled my appointment.
     I've only been to a spa three times now, and when I go, I like to imagine I can really afford it, and not just once a year, but once a week. I like to imagine I'm a very important person with an unlimited amount of funding to be pampered like the queen I surely must have been in some other life. It's funny, because I consider myself very spiritual and not at all materialistic. Possessions mean very little to me, but the pampering. Oh the pampering! God forgive me, but how I desire that pampering!
     So, with my mindset in 'queen for a day' mode, I arrived at the spa for my first treatment. I'd always wanted to try the citrus salt glow scrub. It sounded so rich and luxurious in the spa pamphlet! I'd never imagined I'd feel like a sumo wrestler, with a towel wrapped around me like a diaper, being scrubbed by some strange woman in the dark. Still, it made my skin feel baby soft, and the special vichy shower they used to rinse off the scrub was very therapeutic. It felt just like rain. What I was really looking forward to, though, was the La'Stone Therapy Massage, and that was next up on the docket. A girlfriend of mine said she had melted like butter when Steve, the massage therapist, placed the hot stones on her back. I was so ready to melt like butter. So, said strange woman who scrubbed me down, wrapped me in the spa's signature robe, handed me a bag with all my clothes (Yes, ALL my clothes), and helped me slip into some flip flops. "Are you ready for your hot stone massage?"
     "Yes! I am so ready!" It was time for the journey to tranquility town.  
     "Ok, hon, we just need to walk back down these steps and into the lobby to meet Steve who will be doing your massage." I felt a mix of joy that I was getting this reportedly awesome Steve, and concern that I had to walk through the lobby in nothing but a robe, without makeup, and with a very unattractive white girl fro from the vichy shower. Oh well, not to worry. I was traveling to tranquility town. I was a decedent of queens today, albeit only in my mind, so what did anyone's opinion matter to a queen? So down the steps I went, except, toward the bottom of the steps, this queen's right foot decided to stop while her majesty's left foot decided to speed up without warning. I hadn't dried my feet and they were sliding in the flip flops.
     "Whoops!" Thud, thud, thud, thud. I believe the cheerleading term for the position my body contorted to is a "herky", with one leg curled behind you and the other straight in front. Aside from the thuds and my little whoops sounds, I don't really think anyone would have noticed except that the strange diaper wrapping scrubber lady screamed,
      "Noooooooooooooo! NO! NO! NO! Oh noooooooooooooooooooooooo!" as she tried to hold me up and hold my robe together simultaniously. "OH MY GOD! ARE YOU OK? ARE YOU SURE? YOU'RE SURE?" I was whispering replies with false hope that she would lower her voice. "YOU'RE SURE YOU'RE OKAY?"
       "I'm fine. Really. Just slippery flip flops. No biggie. Calm down. Really. Calm down. Please. Seriously." I looked up to find that somehow we'd arrived at the bottom of the steps and into the lobby. I noticed lots of people with faces, I'd imagine, as red as mine, trying to avoid looking at me. Two teenage girls giggled in the corner. "I guess that's what I get," I thought to myself. Too much anticipation and too much build up; that almost always leads to disappointment. I'd like to hope that no one saw my personal downstairs region as I fell down the stairs on my day at the spa, but I'll never know, and I'll never ask weird diaper wrapping scrubber lady. No need to feel sad for me though, because I too melted like butter during my stone therapy massage. Steve truly was a magic man, and all was forgotten by the end of my day at the spa. Well...almost. I suppose the moral of the story is, when you get a spa gift card, there is no need to hold it for fours months in hopes of an uneventful stretch of life. Just go, already. Oh, and dry your feet before you put on the flip flops. http://mandyleachjustice.vemma.com/

***UPDATE 1/15/2011- Steven, aka, Magic Man, has his own place, and I highly reccommend his hot stone therapeutic massage!!! Check him out here:
http://www.bodyworkstherapeuticmassageashland.com/index.html

Give Me a Sign, Lord! Oh...and Fungus

     It started pretty early on; the random confessions from strangers. I was only in junior high (circa 1989) when a girl I'd just met pulled me aside in the locker room to tell me her deepest, darkest secret: she was fighting a most heinous yeast infection. It was not radical, cool, or totally awesome in any way. Now, either I was very sheltered, or as the last out of four children, my parents just didn't have the time or energy to explain things like fungal infections to me, because I had no idea what she was talking about. Still, I sat down on the bench with her and listened with empathy as she explained her discomfort. Had I known what foreshadowing meant in the sixth grade, I'd have realized at that exact moment that this was only the beginning of a lifetime full of random confessions from strangers, and I would have begged God for a rewrite. Or would I? I have to admit, I come by it honestly. When my Mom and I are together in public, the forces of our empathic listening powers combined are too much for almost any ole stranger to resist. Just a few weeks ago, we spent a half hour in Hobby Lobby listening to woman talk about making quilts for her ill sister, the new living arrangements of her mother, the pancakes she made for breakfast, and a knee surgery she had approximately two years prior. She's thinking about having the same surgery on the opposite knee, but her sister still needs her to help out, and her mother, well, I digress.
     So it really shouldn't surprise me when, at 31, I know and have kept more deep, dark, secrets than any one person should ever be exposed to in one lifetime. With almost ten years in the human services field under my belt now, to say I'm feeling a little burned out would be the understatement of the century. I've questioned all of my educational and career choices up to this point, and for the past five years, I've have a recurrent nightmare about untended goldfish. Do you know what nightmares about untended goldfish mean?! They mean that deep down in your subconscious mind, you know you are neglecting your greatest wealth and creative abilities. It's true. I googled it.
     And so the prayers began. "God, I feel like I'm floundering here. I don't think I want to do this anymore. What is it that you want me to do while I'm here?" I think back to teachers from grade school to high school praising my writing; some of whom still ask me today why I'm not writing or when they can expect to see a book. Then I block out the memories of unimpressed college professors telling me I was too cliche and overly dramatic. I keep wondering why God would whip me up with two parts creativity, one part insight, an extra 1/4 a cup of compassion, and ten cups of heavy whipping guilt when it comes to doing anything that doesn't directly, immediately, and physically help people in need. I have continuously asked myself why I ever gave up creative studies for human studies and counseling, and I'm still pondering this.
     Earlier this month, when I was particularly depressed, dissatisfied with work, and drying my tears with stacks of student loan bills, I prayed even harder. "God, this can't be right. I'm not happy. I feel like I'm not helping anybody. What is it that I'm supposed to be doing here? This can't be it." I went to CVS to pick up a few supplemental items for a baby shower gift I was delivering the following day. As I debated between lavender scented baby wash and the oatmeal infused variety, an elfish looking octogenarian shuffled toward me, basketed walker in tow. She was waving a tube of Baby Desitin Cream at me as she said, matter of factly, "This stuff is better than anything you can buy for a yeast infection. My 'doctah' told me so. Ya know what else works? Athletes foot creme! It's the same thing but it's 'cheapah'!" I'll spare you the rest of the twenty minute conversation, but I smiled and feigned as much enthusiasm as I could muster up for her as I asked myself if there was something about me that made people want to talk about fungus, particularly in their nether regions. Then, I had to laugh. Yes, God is listening. He may not be giving me a straight answer right now, but one thing is for sure. He's laughing at me. Also, he really wants me to lend a compassionate ear to people who need it; especially in regard to matters of the fungi.

http://mandyleachjustice.vemma.com/

Shut Up and Do It!

It's been about five years since I put my writing dreams on hold for the more immediately promising graduate school, two years since I accepted a full time job that requires a minimum of ten hours in the car a week, and approximately six months since I stopped nagging my husband: "But if I JUST had a SPACE of my OWN in this HOUSE, I might ACTUALLY be ABLE to WRITE something," because he finally began attic renovation. And so, here I am, in my remodeled space, with no more excuses, in my cozy little attic office, ready to blog and roll! From this day on, I can no longer say that I'm restricted from doing what I really love. Here, in this place; in my attic, I will tell you my stories. Outside of this room, I am a wife, a stepmom, a counselor, an employee, a daughter, a sister, a neighbor, and a friend. Here, I am a writer, and I can't wait to tell you MY stories from MY attic.