I've established that I don't suffer from ophidiophobia (fear of snakes).
And I thought I was over my severe arachnaphobia until this morning. I woke up and picked up the big glass of water I keep on my nightstand. I had the glass all the way to my mouth when I noticed moving something a millimeter from my nose. Lo and behold, it was a pretty big spider. I wonder if Little Miss Muffett shouted "FUCK" when that spider sat down beside her. I'll bet if he were in her bowl of curds and whey, a whole string of expletives would've flown out of her mouth. Yuck. It makes me itch just thinking about it. I have to say that Charlotte did wonders for the way I think of spiders. Have you read E.B. White's masterpiece lately? I promise you, it'll be so much more profound than when you read it in 4th grade. And it'll make you cry buckets of tears. Keep a big glass of water by your bed.
I'm proud of myself though. I cannot bear to let a spider get away because it never fails to resurface. And since this one was so close to my bed and I already suffer from nightmares, I faced the enemy. I grabbed a paper towel and reached in the glass with it and crushed him. Not without a little chase. Thank god he wasn't one of those jumping kinds. Or maybe he just couldn't get traction on the plastic cup.
Now I know spiders are good and they eat insects, but please do not chastise me for killing it. That means you, Dude. I still feel bad about poor Sly under the Family Fern. May he rest in peace.
Back to the PI. I had finished mowing the yard and I decided to prune some of the scrub trees along the side of the yard. Pruning is so therapeutic for me. But my therapy was completely undone when I saw it. The evil plant. I threw down the pruners and ran to the back door and up the stairs to my bathroom. Grabbed a can of Ajax on the way. Peeled off my sweaty (and regrettably skimpy) clothes. Put them in an orange biohazard bag. Turned the shower on - the water as hot as I could stand. Jumped in and scrubbed every inch of my body with Ajax. Except my hair. My highlights cost too much to risk them. I just lathered, rinsed, repeated, lathered, rinsed and repeated, lathered, rinsed... I spared my lady parts from the Ajax, too. But damn. Can you imagine getting it there?
Obviously, this part of my anatomy wasn't exposed while pruning, but it's always possible for a molecule or two of urushiol to be tranferred there in the process of peeling off clothes. I made do with Zest for my LPs.
For the next 24 hours, I had many phantom itches, but thank god, none of them turned out to be PI.
There are plenty of other things I'm not wild about, but I think the poison ivy thing is my only phobia. And dammit. It doesn't even have a fancy Greek name. Believe me, I looked. Botophobia is the fear of plants. Toxicophobia is the fear of poison. Maybe Botoxicophobia would be appropriate. But that sounds like fear of the inability to register any expressions of emotion on one's face. Hmmmm... Lessseee. The latin name for poison ivy is Toxicodendron radicans. Latin for fear is metus. We could just call it TRM. Actually, I like Botoxicophobia better. I hereby coin, copywright, trademark and patent that word and claim $1 in royalties for each and every use of it in any form, including electronic, print, audio... Dude, don't you have some CLE comin' up? How about some IP law? I have GOT to protect all these brilliant ideas of mine.
Ok, I think I've exhausted the whole phobia subject.
Quick update on the Daddler. And Kiddo. Daddler's been happy as a clam. He's been nicer since our little spat the other night. And my humble, sincere apology the next day. Kiddo and I had a major, angst-filled (complete with tears) come-to-Jesus meeting last night. He's been sweet today. Let's hope it lasts. I'm hopeful, because I think I got through to him. I think he finally got a glimpse of how hard it's been for me lately. And as much as we butt heads, he really is a great kid and I'm so proud of him. I want to give him everything I can, but I know that I'm not doing him any favors if I don't expect him to man-up and behave like a loving, respectful, grateful son. Yesterday my shrink told me I have to let go of the guilt. I trust her. So I'll do it.
And I'll know in my heart of hearts that I've done my best for the people I love. My mother. The Daddler. And of course, Kiddo. And last, but not least, myself.
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