Spiders again

I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I saved a spider and decided to raise it as a pet. Within a week it had grown to the size of a small orange and its legs had become very hairy.

I kept it in the garage where it walked around and spun webs. One day I opened the garage door and the breeze was so strong that the spider was buffeted in the wind and blown directly into my mouth. It didn't go in. It was a bit too big for that. Instead, it sat between my lips like a cork.

I spat it out but knew that it was dead.

Ants and spiders

This morning, while getting ready to take my shower, I saw a spider in the tub. I've never really understood why spiders crawl into tubs or sinks. They can't get out and they inevitably drown unless the user is feeling particularly merciful that day.

Anyways, the spider drowned as soon as I started my shower--I tried to get it out, but it didn't want to grab onto my plastic flower. At the end, I reached over to get the conditioner and the bottle fell right on top of the drain, upending a huge amount of hair and the dead spider.

I left it alone and went on with my morning, figuring I'd deal with the cleaning some other time. Later that night, I noticed a huge number of ants on the rim of the tub. After killing them with Raid, I looked into the tub.

The spider had disappeared, but there were a few of its legs here and there.

I suppose that this could be karma. I prefer to think of it as more proof that nature is ugly and horrible.

Beautiful things and ugly things

Ugly things: your sister's Newfie taking a wet dump and getting the shit stuck on his ass fur.

Beautiful things: Guo Jingming, Chinese author who writes predominantly YA lit. I'm sure he has plenty of fangirls. If there were an author in America who looked like him, the Twilight fans would have a collective coronary.

Oscar De La Renta Resort 2011

If I were a skinny 5'10'' woman, I would totally wear this to the beach. It's from a resort season collection, so that means it's viable sand-water-and-sun wear.

Cynophobia

I'm staying with my older sister for the next few weeks; the reason being that she wants me to keep her dogs company while she works from 9 to 7 and because she wants to give dad a break from having to clean up dog hair.

I don't particularly care for dogs. I think they're repulsive creatures, all slobber and fangs and fur and feces. No, I should amend that statement. I don't mind dogs when they're not mine and they're not close to me.

My ideal dog, really, is Jessie; Jessie is my oldest sister's Shih Tzu and he acts nothing like a dog. He's quiet, he doesn't run around much, he doesn't move in the car or stick his head out the window, his mouth isn't big enough to make much drool, he doesn't try to come near me, and he leaves me alone when I'm eating.

All these admirable qualities are completely lacking in my older sister's three dogs. Between the three of them is a combination of everything I hate about dogs: Forrest always thinks I'm going to feed him; Daisy is hyperactive and improperly socialized; and Paddington is a monstrous Newfie, only two years old, barely disciplined and strong.

But then, I suppose I'll be fine. Even if it took me years to finally muster up the courage and strength to push down my gag reflex, I did finally manage to pick up one of Paddington's monster turds. If nothing else, it's fun to watch Forrest think I'm going to feed him.