My Magnetic Personality

I've been pondering my writing (non)career lately and trying to decide which direction I should take it.

After a review of my strengths and weaknesses, I have finally discovered my niche.

Is anyone interested in a compilation of magnetic fridge poetry?

Whether I'm sincere:

Or even more sincere:

 

I totally rock this genre.

I'll be waiting by the phone, publishers.

The Story of the Well-Groomed, Rare Evil South American Banana Spider

I discovered a huge spider in the corner behind the toilet, no doubt planning his surprise attack on the the next unfortunate victim to sit there (me).

With horror, I realized my resident spider slayer (a.k.a. reason enough to marry again) had already left for work, so I did what any reasonable person would do when confronting one of those giant spiders with those God-awful bendy spider legs: I cried for a good 15 minutes.

Then, mustering the courage that only comes from someone who has to pee really, really badly, I realized it was him or me. And it wasn't going to be me. Not today.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any bug spray in the bathroom, nor could I reach behind the toilet to adequately swat him with anything I had handy. I wasn't about to leave the restroom to get bug spray and risk him crawling away, as I knew -- KNEW -- he'd find his way to my bed tonight to carry out his evil spider intentions (there are no other kind of spider intentions).

He undoubtedly was a Rare Evil South American spider, inadvertently carried in with his family on some bananas. As soon as I fell asleep, he would bring Mrs. Spider to my bedroom to lay her venomous spider eggs in my cheek.

With adrenaline coursing through my veins (or maybe that was the three cups of coffee I had?), I grabbed the first thing I saw: a can of air freshener. And I began to spray the daylights out of the spider. HA! Take THAT!

You see, I have read enough picture posts from those wonderful organic mamas -- who don't feed their children PopTarts for dinner, like I do -- to know that I was dousing him in dangerous, irritating, carcinogenic chemicals. I sprayed him again.

But I soon realized with dismay -- as the spider raised eight middle fingers in my direction -- that it would take years for those chemicals to do their damage, and my bladder couldn't wait that long. Plus, the toxins probably would only make him grow EXTRA God-awful bendy legs that he would use to carry out his spider revenge. Damn.

Sweat dripping from my brow, I quickly rummaged through the cabinet, anxiously peeking over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure the spider couldn't fly.

Aha! I grabbed what I thought was a can of hairspray and ran back to the toilet.
As the spider smirked about his future spider babies in my cheek, I said, "You've got to ask yourself one question. 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"

Then I sprayed. And sprayed some more. And some more.

Only it wasn't hairspray.

It was dry shampoo.

At first, he laughed. I had not only made him smell divine with my aerosol attacks, I had now fluffed his hairy spider legs. He was going to be quite the catch at the Rare Evil South American Banana Spider Party -- to be held later that night on my face.

He turned to face me. We stared at each other, eye to eyes....


He jumped.


I screamed. I prayed. I might have peed my pants.

But then something happened. The dry hairspray was ... drying. He froze in mid-air. It played out like a weird spider version of The Matrix.

Figuring this was my only chance to slay him -- or star in a Matrix film --l I did three slow-motion back flips (in my head) and sprayed him again.

Again. Again. Again.

He dropped to the floor beside the toilet, motionless, and extra coiffed.
 
I wasn't falling for his sneaky spider antics, so I ran back to the cabinet and returned with an arsenal of hairspray, shaving cream, heat protection spray, brown sugar and vanilla body spray... I gave him everything I had. Damn, he smelled wonderful.
 
As he lie on the floor, covered in mousse, I carefully, gingerly, cautiously reached behind the toilet with an entire roll of toilet paper wrapped around my hand.
 
Shuddering, I picked him up -- or rather, he stuck to the toilet paper -- and I dropped it all into the toilet.
Good riddance, Rare Evil South American Banana Spider!
 
I flushed three times. Okay. Five times. Okay. Twenty-seven times.
 
And then I went to another bathroom to pee because I realized that I likely only rinsed the toiletries off of him -- leaving his God-awful bendy leg hair remarkably smooth and shiny -- and making it easier for him to swim.

I will have to duct-tape the lid down on the toilet for a few days (months) before I feel safe. Does anyone know how long Rare Evil South American Banana Spiders can hold their breath?