Death of a Salesman

Before we return to our regularly scheduled post, I need to give a shout out to Kip (whom I've finally met after all these years) for identifying the mystery object as a moldy bagel. And let me give a double shout out to Emily, who recognized it as a cheesy bagel from Costco. I found that little gem tucked away by our water heater in the kitchen closet. Estimated age: 2 months. Jibblies.

Now, as you may or may not be aware, I was a Girl Scout in my elementary school days. For the most part, I enjoyed the program. However, one aspect of it caused more angst to my soul than my little self could bear. The cause of dread, year after year? Selling Girl Scout cookies.

I hated it. I was painfully shy, and I dreaded having to -- gasp! -- talk to adults and ask them to buy some cookies. One year I think I only sold cookies to two people -- and one of those people was my mom. Another year, I was determined to go door to door around my whole block to improve my abysmal stats. I made it to three houses, was rejected each time, and walked home in tears. The reason I finally quit Girl Scouts was because my poor soul couldn't stand to be crushed by cookie sales one more time.

With a background like this, I've become kind of a sucker to children salespeople. Oh, you're selling bars of chocolate for your baseball team? I'll buy one. You're selling subscriptions to the local newspaper? I'll pass, but have a dollar for your trouble.

The past two days, some neighborhood children have knocked on our door, trying to sell -- get this -- rocks for a dollar apiece. They're trying to raise money so they can go to the fair at the park. While I admire their pluck, it's a very good thing that Jacob has been answering the door, because otherwise I'd probably be staring at a nice little rock collection right now.

Let's play a game

Guess what this is. Go on, guess. (Except for you, Heather, since you already know.) Winner gets a shout out on my next blog entry! (Whenever that will be . . . )

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Around 2:00 this afternoon, I decided that I should probably get around to making the bed, so I sauntered into the bedroom. Before I was able to "tidy up the nursery," if you will, I noticed something moving on the sheets.

It was a spider -- no bigger than the eraser on a pencil, but a spider nonetheless. In my premarriage days, I probably would have been able to take care of it. Now? Not so much. I hurried off to get a glass from the kitchen cupboard and trapped the spider on the bed, to make sure it didn't get away before Jacob got home from work so he could get rid of it. Naturally, I had to check up on it every 10 or 15 minutes to make sure it hadn't escaped its makeshift cage.

Then -- then! Not 45 minutes later I decided to pull out our sleeping bag for us to take on our upcoming trip to California. I carried it from the spare bedroom to the front room and set it down, and guess what popped out at me, much like the Huns popping out of the snow like daisies? Another spider. But this time it was a fatty one.

Reader, I screamed. And then I hopped around looking for some protection for my feet. In hindsight, perhaps flip flops aren't the best protection.

Out came glass number two. But this time I had to shake it into the glass, as it was stubbornly clinging to the sleeping bag. And once I had captured my prey, I hopped around some more until I set it on the table and set a piece of paper over the top.

A surefire, sealed cage for sure.

Upon further inspection, I thought it might have the markings of a brown recluse spider, so I decided to Google some images of such spiders. But the results included pictures of gangrenous flesh as a result of such spider bites, and I quickly closed out of that window.

Jacob won't be home for two more hours (he's working late so he doesn't have to take paid time off for our vacation). Every time my phone vibrates or I feel a stray hair brushing against my arm, I jump a little.

I may not be able to sleep tonight.

"I feel a little crispy."

Last Friday, I took a last minute substitute job for a third grade class I was vaguely familiar with (as in, I covered for the teacher for approximately three hours one day a week or two ago).

As it turned out, the entire school day was dedicated to a field trip with the rest of the third grade. Not only that, but we had about fifty billion parent chaperones turn out, so the amount of supervision I did was minimal.

Essentially, I was paid to walk to a park, supervise four games of kickball over a period of about an hour and a half, eat a lunch that was provided from the cafeteria, and pass out popsicles after we walked back to the school. It was glorious.

The weather was also glorious -- not too hot, not too cloudy. Unfortunately, my face ended up getting quite sunburned. (Skin cancer, anyone?)

And now I'm peeling. I hope the flakiness runs its course by the time we go down to California for our family reunion this weekend. Heaven forbid I look like a leper in the family photos!