I started a new workout program this weekend. Over his vaca, Hubba had taken it upon himself to rid our garage of all of its excessive crap and in the process made it very hospitable. He also managed to set up a pseudo-gym with a bench and accompanying set of weights so Mama could get her lift on. That's what I like to call a "win-win."
The fe-mini decided she wanted to join me on my highway to health. We hadn't completed even one circuit of the Hubba-derived exercise recipe when she started screaming. And I don't mean crying; I'm talkin Texas Chainsaw Massacre screaming. This was followed by a repetitive "Owie! Owie! Owie!" so I knew it wasn't from the exercise regimen. I begged to know what was wrong and she pulled up her shirt to reveal, "Something BIT meeeee!" And sure enough there was a distinct point of entry along with an almost immediate area of swelling. I assessed the surroundings and found one bastard spider laying on the cement complete with a look of guilt in his beadie little eyes. It didn't take me two seconds before I decided he needed to die. I quickly grabbed a dumb bell and obliterated the sneaky little schister! While Girl Wonder was thanking me for "saving her life" I realized I had just rid the situation of the offender and thus any clues to the toxicity level of said offender. I would have been smarter to capture the aggressor which would have in turn alleviated the next 45 minutes of subsequent Internet research trying to identify the evil enemy, half of which was spent listening to bellows of pain from the midget. The Hubba and I were both silently anticipating a trip to the ER. After about an hour of swelling regression and tear turn-off those fears subsided.
I never really got a positive ID on the arachnid but after some discussion we both agreed that the recent upswing in the spider population on the home front rendered some sort of action. We devised a plan of attack and I was sent out with marching orders--serious stuff on the outdoor perimeter and herbal homemade remedies for the indoors.
I sat at the store amongst thousands of bottles of toxicity made for all multi-segmented creatures. With kids in the cart, I mumbled out loud the each label and their apparent claims of carnage. Ant, fly, hornet, mosquito, rodent--evidently everything BUT spider. I was irked. I continued looking...bee, beetle, yellow jacket, wasp...then I stumbled upon the ever-respected "roach." Girl Wonder tilts her head to one side and says, "Roach?" and I replied "Yes, you know? Cockroach?" To which she further inquires, "What is cock?" to which I respond with laughter of uncontrollable proportions and she again says, "Mom! (as if to say: "Snap out of it. Get it together lady!") What is cock? What is it!?" and all I could come out with is just more silent, body-shaking laughter. And THIS, my friends, is a prime example of how my perpetual immaturity and grand mental capacity for potty humor continues to get me into conversational combat with this kid! Wish me luck in this large chore of actually raising a mature human being. At this rate it's really not looking good!
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