Mildred's Revenge

When the swarm of flying ants was discovered, I calmly zipped into the kitchen, grabbed the ant killer, and with the press of a calm finger, reigned death upon them.

When my friend raced screeching from her house upon the discovery of a dead squirrel on the porch, I simply picked it up by its tail, walked back to the woods, and flung it.

And when Mookie puked worms, I calmly gathered the angel-hair pile of parasites and bagged them for the vet to examine while my husband was gagging in the bathroom.

I have buried (or flung) more dead bunnies, chipmunks, moles, squirrels, birds, and snakes than I care to remember, all of who were often in various, er, pieces. This is the result of living with cats who have been free to roam outside and embrace their predatory nature and return their prizes to our house with love, if partially consumed.

I'm not squeamish.

Except for spiders. There is only one kind of spider that is allowed to live in my house: little yellow ones that stay far away and seem to move with reasonable speed. We have many. We live in peace.

Wolfgang, a ferocious, enormous, hairy black serial killer, lives above my side door. On the other side of the glass. We had a conversation one day, through the glass. We agreed that he could live there, indulging his bloodlust. He could live there. Not in here. He accepted that he couldn't eat my face and I accepted that I was living with a psychopath attached to my house. But one who surely kept promises.

But then there were Mildred.

I'm not sure if Mildred and Wolfgang were dating, married, or just "friends." Maybe they didn't even know each other. Regardless, he had one side of the house and she the other. Outside.

After last year's ... incident ... Mildred and I had kept our distance. I felt we had come to an understanding. I didn't realize she was spending her time making "babies."

Yesterday, Mildred got her revenge. As I happily vacuumed up the front room, breathing in the first warm air of spring and basking in the rarely-seen Rochester sunshine, I felt life was just pretty darn good. And then it happened.

Awakened by the sound of my Dyson, an army of pissed off Mildreds came racing out of the wall, racing toward me like a platoon of psychotics, screeching in their high-pitched spider voices, intent on ... well, eating my face. That comes after they terrorize and torture me by crawling up my arms and legs and over my eyes and into my hair and ears. Forget water-boarding. Spider torture.

I'm not going to say my scream was bloodcurdling, but it did set off both dogs who were asleep out back, the poodle across the street, a baby at the end of the block, and a hamster three houses over.

I raced to the garage, to Jamie, who was certain some horror had befallen me (it had). He was unimpressed to discover I was "freaking out over a bug."

He went in to face the terror, a Spartan up against the Persians.

He found one beast.

One.

Which presents us with two issues:
1. He thinks I'm ridiculous.
2. They are still there.

I have not and will not return to the room. Ever.

Additionally, I have scolded both cats who spend a preponderance of time in that room and should have been all OVER eating the bugs. Explain how they can take care of 98% of the chipmunk population outside and haven't touched the Army of Black Death that dwells a mere two feet from their favorite bed.

And I swear, somewhere Mildred is laughing at me. Rubbing her little feet together knowing how awesome revenge can be when served cold.

Running Into the Unknown

I used to dream about retreating to a mountain cabin and spending a month cut off from the rest of the world, alone, unpressured, undisturbed, free. I felt this would be the opportunity to let inspiration take hold and my great American novel would finally come pouring out of  my fingertips. I would come back a changed woman: more mature, wiser, independent, and self-possessed.

But people have to work for a living. Such forays mean losing at least all of your vacation if not taking unpaid leave and using up all of your vacation completely eliminates the Spur of the Moment Sunny Friday Afternoon Off (or the I Need to Screw Around at Home Today Day Off).

And so, to the mountains I have never gone.

After a few glasses of wine, feeling particularly lost in my professional life (a feeling which has plagued me since I got my first job at 15), I often decide I'm going to join the Peace Corps. I'm going to go to remote corners of the world and make a difference, focus on what really matters, and shed the petty obsessions that distract me from being a person of integrity and character. Obsessions such as knowing just how much my dog loves me and polling everyone around on this fact until they give me the answer I need: he loves you more than anything in the whole world, Gretchen.  But I have a job and a life and leaving that behind for two years (not to mention leaving said devoted dog) is too much of a break from my reality to be realized.

And so, to the Peace Corps I have never gone.

Life is littered with convenient excuses for not taking a risk. I'm not saying that you shouldn't dream about things that you know you've romanticized and will likely never do. You've gotta have those day dreams -- because they can lead to real steps toward what you want to do and who you want to be. However, embracing a barrier that you most certainly can remove means that only you stand in your way.

We are, I'm quite convinced, our own greatest adversaries.

There's no reason I can't go to a cabin. Though whether that will change my life is unlikely. And there are alternatives to the Peace Corpse which I don't bother to investigate.

I am risk averse. I follow the rules. I so dread getting into trouble that I freak out every time my husband walks in the Out doors at Home Depot and nearly had an hysterical melt-down when my father-in-law lied to a gate officer saying we were staying at a resort (which we were not) just so we could walk around. I was convinced we were going to be arrested and thrown in jail at any moment. This was a month ago. I'm still worked up about it.

My point, other than gently pointing out my own neurosis, is that I'm not the type to race into the unknown with reckless abandon. But I'm also getting older. And you start to see the world differently. And you start to have less tolerance for the bullshit, both other people's and your own. Mostly your own.

And so I called a time out.

Sick of wondering "What if" and trying to find enough space to figure out what I want to do with my life, tired of resting on those previously-mentioned stupid excuses, and itching to take control, I quit my job.

I do not have another job.

And yet, here I am: slightly afraid but no longer letting myself off the hook with lame excuses not to venture forth. I have no idea what comes next. I have no idea what tomorrow holds. I have no idea -- but I know I'm responsible for it, that I will make it happen, and that even if this turns out to be a disastrous mistake, at least I took the risk. Making the decision is somewhat easy ... but then reality sets in and the adreneline of the decision quickly gives way to fear and panic and that same practicality which keeps most of us on the smarter, more conservative path.

It started to hit home when I was driving away from my office yesterday. It was a warm afternoon, but I noticed that as soon as I closed my door and drove away for the last time that my body started to heat up. As each mile passed, the questions flooded forth like a raging river engorged with snow melt. What am I going to do? Did I make the right choice? How long will my savings last? Will I rise or fall? Will I really grow or is this just going to be a failure? Am I running to something or fleeing? Oh my God, how will I not buy shoes for awhile? 

I started to feel the heat running down my back, sweat breaking out on my forehead. I wouldn't be putting on a suit tomorrow. I wouldn't be looking at resource allocation reports. I wouldn't be negotiating to get someone more time on a project. I wouldn't be commuting. What the hell would I be doing? Panic dug its talons into my gut. My temperature continued to rise. Doubt filled me. I noticed I was speeding. Is there a cop around? I noticed the gas tank was half full. How much was gas these days? Maybe I would need to stop driving places. And then I decided the smartest thing was to turn up the radio and try to get my mind off of these nagging and presently unanswerable questions. I looked down to turn on the radio, now in a full-blown panic attack, sweating, overheating, and quite convinced my body was going to melt -- its way of telling me that I had made a huge mistake. When I looked down, I noticed a little light on the center console.

Seat warmer.

Level 5.

I turned it off, opened the window, and let the breeze wipe the sweat off of my brow as the seat cooled down. And I know I'm going to be fine.