I’ve mentioned the three sisters, the spiders who live on my balcony? Yesterday, my husband and I did a mammoth cleaning/reorganizing session in preparation both for Spring and the arrival of long-awaited houseguests next week. I moved the two big bins that stay outside, 55 gallon size, from their winter storage spot under the eves and left them, for a while, in front of my trellises (trelli?) on their way to the corner under the light. I have to reconfigure the seating area there and was focused on cleaning inside, as I had to vacuum before my husband shampooed the carpet.
So, big production.
This morning, he’s snoozing away, snug in our bed, and I woke up like I was going to work. My brain said, “Good MORNING!” I grumbled something about it’s not morning, and go back to sleep, and my brain said, “I feel like making coffee! And morning pages. Oh, have you started writing that WIP we were doing yesterday, the one with TJ – and ooh! the memoir one! I remember, I remember, I remember!”
Sigh. Teaching my brain language may have been a mistake, but I digress.
So up I get, coffee I make and dishes wash in the dishwasher. And journal I collect. Warm pj’s put on, and oh, I’d better grab my robe. My brain is bouncing with excitement, so I grab my journal. “And the memoir book!” And the memoir book. “And the coffee!” And the coffee. “And the pen cup!” “Are you done yet?” “Yeah, as long as you have the pen cup. And the planner.” And the pen cup. And the planner.
I walk to the door. Of my nice, spring-prepared balcony.
But, as brains do, mine has a detour – before the dishing, and the coffeeing – actually, while the coffee was coffeeing and the dishes were dishing, come to think of it – I wandered over to look out the window and what do my wandering eyes perceive on our nice, clean, shampooed carpet and washed floor by the cat boxes?
Not only did my cat barf, he barfed in front of this box. And that box. And trailed down the center of the boxes for good measure. Missed the base of the cat tree and only got a little on the carpet, and left the remainder of a truly spectacular, epic barf in the middle of the pee pad we left out for my aged dog.
I swear to dog, I’m drowning in pet effluvia.
I clean all that up, collect the journal, and the coffee, and the pen cup, and my bathrobe because it might be cold outside, and turn off my phone so I’m “tech free for Sunday” (I’m writing this on my laptop, so I didn’t quite break protocol), and my planner, and I walk with relief to the balcony door all ready to do battle with the serenity gods, when I see it.
The fucking spider bitch goddess IS WEAVING HER BLASTED WEB BETWEEN MY DOOR, THE EVES OF THE ROOF, AND THE FUCKING FIFTY GALLON STORAGE CONTAINERS!
Now, I’m a weaver, and a knitter, and a maker, and I know art when I see it.
But I’m ALSO arachnophobic.
And that, Dear Reader, is why I’m sitting, sweating, in my blasted bathrobe with my planner, and my coffee, both journals, memoir book, pen cup, AND laptop, crammed into the corner of my dining room table that still has the stuff that we’re sorting. I’m planning to do my morning pages from here. Because, spider. And himself is still snoozing and can’t relocate her for me.
She’s laughing. I just know she is.