Being the super mom that I am, I make sure my kids keep their rooms picked up. I have them do it every night before they go to bed, and sometimes mid-day if things are looking especially catastrophic. Sister loves nothing better than to drag out every single dress-up item she owns so her room looks as if it vomited crowns and tutus. Then along comes Baby, toddling through the disaster area and wipes out on a lovely gown of satin and sequins. Besides, I don't want them to grow up to be slobs.
But don't you dare look in my room.
Mine and Hubby's bedroom is the dumping ground for things that have no home and the hiding place for all my crap when company comes. There have been times when there was a perfect "Y" shaped path on the floor, beginning at the door and then forking off to either side of the bed.
However, Flylady has converted me. In accordance with her doctrine I have been chipping away at the mess a little at a time and have rediscovered the floor. Yesterday I set my timer for 15 minutes, just like she says, and worked on the closet. When those 15 minutes were up I had a neat little pile to take to the garage.
Oh, Lord. The garage. Don't even get me started on that. Let's just say Flylady's helping hand can only reach so far. I hear some people put cars in their garages. This might have been handy a few nights ago (see previous post).
So I grab an armload and head out to store my trash. I have to do some digging to find the plastic tote holding winter clothes. I trip over my old doll cradle I hope to restore someday for my girls. I have to move the broken table my husband says he'll fix. I almost kill myself on the doll buggy my dad bought for Sister, but takes up half her room. Finally, I find the tote, shove in the sweaters and head back to the house for my second and final load. As I'm walking into the house I feel a weird little prick on the inside of my thigh. Hubby starts talking to me about something, but I don't know what he's saying because something is sticking me. In fact, it feels like it's biting me. Maybe an ant? He looks at me strange while I scratch at my pants. "Sorry," I say, with a little laugh. "I think I have a bug in my britches." I feel something in there and grab it, pinching it in my pant leg.
Okay. Ants don't crunch like that...unless it's an extra large ant. I look down to see a spot of goo where I have smashed something in my pant leg. I immediately start yanking my pants off, right there in front of my open living room window. The good news - it wasn't an extra large ant. Only a spider...or what is left of one. It's brown. Brown recluse? Now I really start to freak out, running around in my underwear, swearing to my husband that I'm going to die or lose my leg or go blind or something. I sit down at the computer and immediately start doing searches for brown recluse photos and what to do when a spider bites you. I'm pretty sure it wasn't a brown recluse, but I couldn't find a picture of what it looks, er, looked, like.
So, today, I'm still alive. But I have four red spots on my leg. They don't hurt or itch. I don't have a fever or nausea. But they do look worse than they did yesterday. Bad sign?
Anybody out there know anything about spider bites?