We lived in a home on a large pond surrounded by trees, which housed an assortment of wild life. This house met all of my criteria when we bought it: twenty minutes from work, neighbors close enough in case of an emergency but far enough away they wouldn’t bother me. Our two-bedroom piece of hell was my husband’s dream retirement home; with one tanked economy and an upside-down mortgage it became mine.
There were two things the property had an abundance 0f: water and spiders, living in close proximity of either was proof of my love for my husband. Most of the evil masses stayed outside or in the basement, entering my domain went against one of my two rules in our house: no shoes or nature past the mudroom. Neither rule was followed. I bellowed and blustered, but no one listened, especially my present squatter.
I took a deep cleansing breath, filled my lungs with fortifying oxygen that I knew my hyperventilating would quickly diminish. I tried to think if we could afford to walk away from this house; as so many others had done at that time.
This was more than any home owner could or should take.
I stood in my kitchen. My only protective covering was a pair of old untied hiking boots with knotted laces, which made them long enough tie and they weren’t. I had thrown them on to take out the garbage with an over loved jersey night shirt that proclaims my dislike for mornings. At that moment, I wished for jeans and a pair of wool socks, but taking time to change was not an option.
I held my cell phone and in the other the hose of my Hoover vacuum cleaner – a.k.a. ‘The Beast’. The severity of the moment would have been clear to anyone watching as I used my life line to my knight in shining armor; whose shield was slowly tarnishing as our conversation progressed. I demanded he come home!
“George, you are the head of this house hold and this is your job.”
“When did this title become bestowed upon me?” he asked incredulously. In my mind I could see his forehead pinched in confusion.
“You do the dishes and kill the spiders, that makes you in charge of this home.” I was desperately clinging at straws of twisted reasoning in order to get my way.
“Izzy Mae Amlaw, this could be someone’s mother or father. Did you think of that?” He was trying the approach of reasoning with guilt! Was he kidding! This was not the time for an ethical discussion of right to life. I wanted him to deal with this abomination of nature. This was not going to be the next family pet. He had done this a hundred time before. Did I not mean anything! So, what if he was an hour away and unable to get back. Then something about a meeting, client and making money so we could retire someday. I was in this mess because he was thinking of retirement. Forgive him – HA!.
I was not faint of heart – I raised teenagers. We have had cats who brought us gifts from the great outdoors, dead and alive, including but not exclusively: mice, snakes, a blue bird and even a decapitated grey squirrel once, but never this – they knew better. None of these little pieces of nature ever bothered me, except the Sunday morning of the “Great Chipmunk Massacre.” Let’s face it; wiping up blood and picking up Chip and Dale pieces, in your shoes and the recycling bin, would have been daunting for anyone.
This was different.
My true love was deserting me. Telling me to get it together and handle it. If I survived this, he was not getting any carbs – ever. He had the nerve to tell me he loved me as he hung up. There were no words of wisdom, no combat tactics to follow and no information in how to deal with this conflict. The tail end of our conversation rang in my ears, “What did you do before me?”
“Andrew would have handled it.” I snapped. The moment the words are out of my mouth I realized that my son, at the age of six, would have dealt with this situation better than I – at fifty. I should have felt shame but my mind would have to stop acting like a tornado in a bottle with the one swirling question – why couldn’t this be a skunk?
My eyes had not left that little bastard while on the phone. Battle lines were drawn. I kicked the switch on with my vacuum hose as a lance; I began my charge. The world around me vanished: I only saw him. My vision narrowed, focused as I squinted in concentration. My mind played out all possible combative moves he could have made as I balanced on the balls of my feet like an athlete, which I was not. I would not abandon the house to that evil homewrecker. He was darting back and forth behind an exposed 2×4 in the kitchen wall, baiting me. Where once insulation and wall board hung, our kitchen renovation exposed the vagrant’s playground.
My chin went up and with another cleansing breath that came the faint scent of garbage; how fitting. I swept in, the dishwasher’s soft chant cheered me on. I lunged and sucked up that eight-legged, monstrosity that I knew crawled in from that god-awful thing called a pond. I felt the vibration and heard the grinding of the vermin and slivers of wood as they went through the hose before they were catapulted into the bag of the 1970’s eating machine. Nothing survived The Beast, not earrings, small toys or even sheet rock screws, and not especially a spider. I turned it off as my chest filled with victory for a moment before I realized it passed under my hand and through the tube I was still holding. I convulsed, dropped the hose and rubbed the offended appendage up and down my side.
I looked down at my phone, still clutched in my other hand. Across my grandchildren’s faces in bold and white numbers, 7:02 pm. I abandoned everything in the middle of the kitchen, the vacuum with past meals scenting the air, counters covered in crumbs and stains of last night’s dinner. Trash still needed to be taken out and pots which needed to be hand washed. It laid out as ugly as any battle field.
I walked away victorious, but too drained for any celebration. I went to bed. My heart still pounded, my breath rapid and the tension in my muscles would not relax until I was cocooned in safety. The dishwasher’s victory chant faded behind me.
