Phobia

On Sunday, while my friends were floating (drunk) down a river, I was at home, sobbing into a long-distance phone call because in my kitchen was a spider the size of my hand. (And, as Brian and Melanie will attest, I have massive hands for a girl. I could palm a basketball on a hot day.)

But I digress.

This monster was sitting on a box of Kashi that, incidentally, I can no longer look at.

I don't know if you've been to the tropics -- in truth, I have yet to go into the bush (uhh...forest) of Liberia -- but I'm pretty sure the insects are on steroids. And you really don't know what tricks they're up to. Do they bite? Will I die? Are there wings tucked away somewhere? 

So there I was, scream-crying as I beat this thing with a Windex bottle while the jerk on the phone just laughed and laughed. 

And now I don't sleep because surely there's an angry mate somewhere. Waiting. 

This now ranks #1 on a list of Traumatic Moments Since Leaving the States. 

The previous #1 took place a week into my stay when a see-through lizard fell from the ceiling. Of my 5-by-5-foot bathroom. Needless to say, the Sonicare went flying and a showdown ensued because you cannot -- cannot -- just go to bed or forget about it. No: the enemy you were kind enough to overlook might crawl into your sleeping mouth or lay eggs in your face (thank you very much, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark). 

No: you remember the Native American's story from Natural Born Killers that goes,  "Once upon a time, a woman was picking up firewood. She came upon a poisonous snake frozen in the snow. She took the snake home and nursed it back to health. One day the snake bit her on the cheek. As she lay dying, she asked the snake, 'Why have you done this to me?' And the snake answered, 'Look, bitch, you knew I was a snake.'"

Amen.

It's a jungle out there. And not that concrete nonsense -- a real jungle. And I want it far, far away from me.

In other news, I work in environmental conservation.