I suspect I can be mildly eccentric over some things. I can't think of what any of them are at the moment, but I'm pretty sure if you asked someone in my family they could provide you with a list.
Anyway, last night I was reading through a paper from the Journal of the Polynesian Society and making good use of my pink highlighter while the NPR sat beside me drawing pictures of emotionally tortured anime characters.
She wanted to listen to some music from Spotify while we worked and I said I didn't mind.
She got irritated when I wouldn't give her suggestions for songs to play, asked what kind of DJ I was anyway and declared that my room was "boring" and that she was going back to her own.
A few minutes later I heard her call out, "Mom, come here" in what I can only describe as "The Danger Voice."
The Danger Voice is a tone that someone takes when there is a potentially fatal situation requiring immediate attention. It informs the listener that "sh*t is about to get real."
I sprang from my bed and headed toward the NPR's room, fully expecting to see some unsavory character menacing her with some sort of weapon.
Instead I entered the room to find her pointing toward her nightstand lamp with a frightened expression.
"This had better not be what I think it is," I began, leaning toward the lamp for a closer inspection.
It was.
There on the edge of the lamp was a spider, roughly the size of a large snowflake.
It had already laid out one cross section of web. It hung there limply, suspended by its bum and seemingly dazzled by what I can only imagine was the equivalent of a human being staring into the sun at close proximity.
I swiped at the strand of web and it came away stuck to my finger on one end and the spider's hinder at the other.
The web strand swayed back toward the nightstand and the NPR and I watched as the offending party touched down on its surface and scurried away.
The NPR looked contemptuous.
How dare I abet the enemy.
I lost my cool then.
"How many times do I have to tell you about tiny spiders and their threat level?" I said.
I stormed off wondering where this silly phobia began and recalling all the other times she had called me into her room in California to deal with minuscule arachnids of no consequence .
I thought if I told her how most animals do not attack unless they are threatened she would simmer down but she still insists that the spiders have diabolical plans for her.
Today she informed me that the same spider (she was sure of this) had crawled over the edge of her laptop last night and looked at her. She recounted how she had bravely blown it off the laptop and onto the floor.
"And you lived to tell the tale," I said.
In my own room at the moment there is a cellar spider hanging out in one of the corners and minding its own beez.
There is also a Wocket in my pocket and a Jertain in my curtain and I could care less.
I think I'll look for an Arachnologist at my university and see if they can't come over and conduct a one-day seminar on house spiders and their habits.
Anyway, last night I was reading through a paper from the Journal of the Polynesian Society and making good use of my pink highlighter while the NPR sat beside me drawing pictures of emotionally tortured anime characters.
She wanted to listen to some music from Spotify while we worked and I said I didn't mind.
She got irritated when I wouldn't give her suggestions for songs to play, asked what kind of DJ I was anyway and declared that my room was "boring" and that she was going back to her own.
A few minutes later I heard her call out, "Mom, come here" in what I can only describe as "The Danger Voice."
The Danger Voice is a tone that someone takes when there is a potentially fatal situation requiring immediate attention. It informs the listener that "sh*t is about to get real."
I sprang from my bed and headed toward the NPR's room, fully expecting to see some unsavory character menacing her with some sort of weapon.
Instead I entered the room to find her pointing toward her nightstand lamp with a frightened expression.
"This had better not be what I think it is," I began, leaning toward the lamp for a closer inspection.
It was.
There on the edge of the lamp was a spider, roughly the size of a large snowflake.
It had already laid out one cross section of web. It hung there limply, suspended by its bum and seemingly dazzled by what I can only imagine was the equivalent of a human being staring into the sun at close proximity.
I swiped at the strand of web and it came away stuck to my finger on one end and the spider's hinder at the other.
The web strand swayed back toward the nightstand and the NPR and I watched as the offending party touched down on its surface and scurried away.
The NPR looked contemptuous.
How dare I abet the enemy.
I lost my cool then.
"How many times do I have to tell you about tiny spiders and their threat level?" I said.
I stormed off wondering where this silly phobia began and recalling all the other times she had called me into her room in California to deal with minuscule arachnids of no consequence .
I thought if I told her how most animals do not attack unless they are threatened she would simmer down but she still insists that the spiders have diabolical plans for her.
Today she informed me that the same spider (she was sure of this) had crawled over the edge of her laptop last night and looked at her. She recounted how she had bravely blown it off the laptop and onto the floor.
"And you lived to tell the tale," I said.
In my own room at the moment there is a cellar spider hanging out in one of the corners and minding its own beez.
There is also a Wocket in my pocket and a Jertain in my curtain and I could care less.
I think I'll look for an Arachnologist at my university and see if they can't come over and conduct a one-day seminar on house spiders and their habits.
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