The Spider That Doomed All Others

Arachnophobia is defined as "Extreme or irrational fear of spiders" Depending on who you ask I may be defined as a sufferer of this condition. Okay, okay, most people you ask probably will. Unless they have never seen me encounter one. Wait... we live in Florida. Even strangers have seen me encounter one. 

I display some very entertaining behavior on these occasions. Let's see, if the spider just jumps out of nowhere I emit a loud "OOOOwwwwoooah" sound as I leap away slapping myself. (not sure why the slapping helps but it does). Then I scream for anyone nearby I perceive as a rescuer. (at this point my husband usually hears his name shrieked out, and he has learned to just look where I am pointing and kill it fast) If I just happen to see it sitting there, my eyes narrow and I began to search for a weapon, (this could be anything.... stick, underarm deodorant, hairspray, spray paint, brooms are always good but not always handy, shoes, you get the picture) all the while keeping my eye on said spider just in case it tries to launch an attack first. Once I have a clear shot I pound it, vocalizing with each strike "die!...die!... It sounds horrible I know but this continues until it is a smear and no longer even resembles a spider. Now if on the rare occasion one gets on me or I am trapped with one I think will get on me... Well, just get out of the way. Those who witness this always wish after it is over they had the presence of mind to grab a video camera. Of course they sit spell bound as it is happening because it is like a train wreck. You can't look away. There are screams, frantic limbs flailing, things breaking, sometimes I just run and run not even knowing where I am going. Please be advised. Never, and I do mean Never, touch me if I am in this particular situation. I am in another place and in that place you cannot convince me that anything that touches me is not a spider. I claim no responsibility for my actions. Now I will explain how this all started.

I did not always suffer from this condition. I was usually a pretty fearless kid. (not always a good trait) This particular fear was thrust upon me at the age of 10... Some of you may remember a school item called a "Trapper Keeper". It was like a binder but had a flap that closed your folders in all nice and neat. I had a pretty one. It was made by Lisa Frank, so therefore was bright and colorful and probably had a rainbow horse on it. It was for this particular item that had me searching in my toy box. (I am not sure why it was in there) I got all the way to the bottom and noticed a brown piece of moss in the corner. I grabbed it to throw it away. It came alive and transformed right before my eyes into the biggest, hairiest spider I had ever seen. I stood frozen in horror as it plunged whatever served as teeth to the creature into the middle finger of my right hand. In a knee jerk reaction I threw my hand up to shake it off. As I am looking at my poor finger on the verge of a panic, I discover where the thing landed. I felt as it exited my hair and entered my neckline. It felt like an eternity before it got to my arm and crawled down to my leg. Down my leg it crawled and as it left my foot I stood there, blanched and frozen. I would not accept what my mind was telling me. That could not have just happened. Why couldn't I move? Did the bite paralyze me?

Nope... I stayed in that spot for a while emitting scream after scream still holding my bitten finger aloft. The terror I felt I still can't explain but I sure can remember, and the only way of expressing it was screaming at the top of my lungs. My mother came so fast I think she may of hurt herself. (the things I put this poor woman through) I remember her asking me frantically what happened. I tried so hard to tell her, truthfully I did, but I could not talk while screaming. I must have screamed in her face about a dozen or more times holding the finger that was bitten up in a vain attempt to show her and make her understand. I cannot imagine what she was thinking at that moment. She did however remain calm. (which was unusual... I think that was the only time I showed panic of that magnitude so we reversed roles) Finally after what seemed forever I was able to communicate what happened in short words. "spider.... bit me.... crawled all over me.... (scream)... bit me..."

My mother then went on a hunt for the horrid thing. She finally found it, bagged it and went for the Family Medical Journal next. She did some fast research while glancing at the bagged spider periodically. I am still standing there holding my finger, and managing to cry now instead of scream. The book slams shut and she comes toward me trying to hide the spider. I am instructed to keep my hand below my heart and follow her. Panic begins to flow again as I follow her with my hand as low as I can have it and still manage to walk.
My mother drove with a madness to the hospital. Obediently keeping my hand on the floor of the car, I turn to my mother with teary eyes and ask, "Mom.... am I going to die?" Honesty was not appreciated. "I don't know honey... I don't know...." Well I was pretty certain these were my final moments.

At the hospital they identified my mother's bagged specimen as non poisonous but one that had a painful bite. That day was probably the most traumatizing day of my life. (and I have had my share of those) It was that day, and that spider that doomed every spider I was ever to meet in the future.

The Collision

The truth is I have always rushed into things without thinking. My mother's voice echoes in my mind even now. "Elizabeth! Stop and think!" I very rarely ever did. Even now as an adult, I have yet to master the art. As a result, I visited the emergency room quite frequently. I think they may have had a wing with my name on it as the person who funded it.

My brother and I were riding our bikes down to a neighbors house. They lived a few blocks away and had the most awesome dog - a golden retriever. That was my dream dog. The neighbors were not home at the time but they did not mind us visiting the dog. (At least in my memory they didn't...) As we entered the back yard I followed my brother through the gate. Somehow my hand did not get all the way through and the gate slammed on it. Well you can guess who got the blame. It was not my brothers fault but I sure made it seem that way. (After all, he should have made certain my hand was clear!)

I was furious. I turned around, jumped on my bike, and pedaled right for the road. Now the neighbors I speak of had a lovely yard. This included some beautiful trees, scenic garden rocks, (big ones) and a five foot privacy hedge all around... It was this attractive hedge that served to block my view of the road, while preventing any idiotic kids to been seen from the road. (Stupid hedge...) Out into the road I headed at full speed. From the corner of my eye something caught my attention. I turned my head to look only to see a black car right on top of me. I had time for one short scream before the car impacted my bike. (Car-1 Bike-0) The bike stopped. I did not. The force of the impact sent me flying. I landed on a huge garden rock in the front yard. My ankle got caught in one of the pockets in the rock and I felt it wrench. I rolled off the rock and onto the lawn. (I was very fortunate I did not land on my head, I might have broken their pretty rock)

So there I lay trying to process what just happened. My brother came running over, having heard my scream. He had no idea what happened. Out of the car explodes a lady of about 30 I would guess. Tears are streaming down her face and she is repeating the words "Oh my God, O my God" over and over. She comes to where I am and begins frantically checking me over. At this point in time I felt no pain, and this panic stricken woman becomes my focus. I try to assure her I am fine. I stand up and walk. "See?" I say. "I am fine!" She is not convinced. "But you are bleeding!" she croaks out. I look down. Sure enough I am roughed up pretty bad. My ankle is badly scraped up and my elbow and arm is dripping blood. "Oh this is nothing, just some scrapes." I say nonchalantly hoping she will just leave. She asks me between "Oh my Gods" where I live. She begs me to let her take me home.

I imagined her driving me home and telling my mother what happened. There would be no questions... No rational thought... visions of my mother choking her to death filled my mind. I could not let that happen. I spent what felt like an eternity trying to convince this woman just to leave. I think she was terrified she would be sued and did not realize that I was getting her out of not only being sued but perhaps physically maimed. Finally she got in her car still crying and drove away at two miles per hour and looking in all the driveways to make sure there were no other children flying out into her path. I felt really bad for her.

I went to my bike which was totaled. I picked it up and told my brother to come on. He had been pretty much silent the whole time, and now he was white in the face. Maybe it was the blood all over me. I swore him to secrecy on pain of death (and he was still little enough at nine years old to fear me) until I could explain it to mom. I limped three blocks home and hid my bike. My brother disappeared.

I went straight to the bathroom and tried to get most of the blood cleaned off before I called my mother. Finally I gave up and called her. I remember sitting on the toilet and praying I could word this right. By now my ankle is really beginning to hurt. My mother came in with that look. I knew that look. I had seen it many times before. It signaled panic that was just below the surface. I asked her to sit down... "Elizabeth?" she said in that voice (Yup panic surfacing) as she noticed the blood. I said calmly..."Mom I need you not to panic..." Bad thing to say. Her voice became a screech. "Elizabeth! What happened!!! Tell me now!" Throwing all caution to the wind I calmly said, "I am fine Mom, but I was hit by a car on my bike." There I said it...it was out. I thought I killed her. Her face turned white and I did not see her breathing. I was relieved when then she began to cry and strip me to see all my boo boo's. I thought she had suffered a stroke for a moment there.

After she had examined me, I told her my ankle was injured. Well she took that a little better and near carried me to the car screaming for the family. Turned out it was very badly sprained and wrung out. For the next three months I endured sixth grade on crutches. Let me paint the scene for you. Middle School. Portables. The few friends I did have nicknamed me Lizard because of my tall skinny figure. (even teachers adopted it) Geeky girl on crutches. Need I say more?

I end this story with a shout out to that poor woman that I think I may have psychologically damaged for life. I am sorry for not stopping to think.

When Clowns Attack

Most kids love clowns. They usually come with all sorts of great goodies. Stickers, face painting, and little balloon poodles. I had never really been up close to one at the tender age of toddler. I think I may have seen one from far away, but from that range he was a funny man with a red nose and orange hair. It did not imprint on my memory if I had.

My parents had a friend that really liked me. He brought me a pretty doll that was oriental. I named her "Two". The reasoning behind that I don't know. For a kid with my imagination you would think that I could come up with a better one. He was a good friend of the family, which I knew even at two years of age. He was also a professional clown, which I did not know. Kids love clowns... don't they?

I was in the living room when the doorbell rang. My mother went to answer the door. I heard her greet someone and then heard a familiar voice respond. No reason for alarm. The next thing I know a flash of color enters my vision and I am being held aloft by a monster! He laughed in a high pitched giggle and said, "Hello there little Elizabeth!" in a high pitched weird voice.

Needless to say, I did not have any clue that this was a person I knew. The fact that it knew my name was terrifying to say the least, but even more terrifying was the appearance of this giggling beast! His face was the color of a dead person (not that I had ever seen a dead person) but I knew people did not normally have white faces! His mouth was horribly huge and red! His cheeks were huge! His eyes were so painted they looked like they were glowing. His hair was a huge mass of red fluff. This thing had me inches from his maw! I think I was very convinced I was about to be eaten.

My terror was proclaimed by a serious of horrid screams that would not stop! My mother tried to take me but once he let me go I was gone! Straight under the bed! It took a very long time before I would come out, and you better believe that poor man thought twice about grabbing kids unprepared for his jolly fun!

To this day I cannot handle any "Bobo" type clown. By that I mean the traditional one. The white face, exaggerated red mouth up to the cheeks, painted eyes, with a bushy red wig. If they come around me they get offended, or they laugh. I am not around long enough to find out.

The irony of this story is I now live in a very small town that adores clowns. They have a college for them!!! They have walkabouts on the streets!!! My saving grace is most of them look like Strawberry Shortcake. Toby, however is another matter. He is their leader. He is the one that I fear... He is like 90 years old, but he will set me running in two shakes of a balloon dog's tail.

The Mud Pies

I was born loving the center of attention. Flaunting big brown eyes, bouncing ringlets, and a huge toothy grin always made it so easy. Although I am not near as cute, I still end up the center of attention. It is my big mouth that does it! I don't always welcome it anymore. It is usually very embarrassing. That is a story for another day.


I enjoyed two whole years of being an only child. I was accustomed to making a peep (banging my crib against the wall over and over) and my devoted parents would come running. I had the whole pie as my father later fondly called it. I liked the whole pie... So when my brother came along... Let's just say I was less than welcoming.


My mother had to rescue the poor boy from my jealous two year old grasp more than once. I attempted to drown him in toys in his crib and then with water. My mother knew that tying me up or putting me in a cage was illegal although the thought MUST have crossed her mind. She came up with another solution. She bestowed on me the title of "second mommy". It ensured his survival. I think I misunderstood "mommy" for "master" because it was right around that time that I began to dominate the poor boy.


When we played I would tell him how. I would tell him what to do and when. I was at the top of the pecking order even when I was secretly having a fun time with the little squirt. It was around that time that I discovered pranks... All on my own.


I always thought mud pies were cool. After it rained the mud in our back yard was perfect! My mother gave me some muffin tins for that very purpose. It came with a lesson. One of the tins was dented. "Sin is like that dent, No matter how many things you make in that tin the dent is there. Adam passed that dent unto us all." she said solemnly. I would remember that every time I made mud pies, and for the rest of my life.


I had made a particularly beautiful batch of mud pies one day. Mom put them on the deck to dry. They looked just like yummy brownies. I smiled at my talents. Not everyone can make mud look that good. It was at that moment my two year old brother came out on the deck. I am not sure what inspired the thought of tricking this little kid into eating mud, but once I thought of it I thought I was a genius.


I called him over. He saw the mud pies. The look on his face delighted me... (I was a mean kid man!) He thought they were brownies too! I slyly asked with a huge eyed innocent smile, "Would you like one?" He was so excited. (I rarely shared anything at that point in time) I gave him the prettiest one. He stuffed it right in his mouth. First he looked confused. Then disgust filled his features. Guess it did not taste like chocolate! I laughed so hard at my funny prank. I laughed while my brother ran inside spitting mud everywhere. I did not laugh when my mother came out. She did not have her usual sense of humor that day.


You would think that the spanking I got would have taught me a lesson. 


The next time I used shaving cream on top. That one was worth the spanking I KNEW I would get.