The beat goes on

Yesterday there was a tremendous thud on my living room window.  I jumped up and ran to look.  The first thing I saw was a wad of feathers stuck to the glass and, looking down, a large bird gasping on the grass outside.  Chase slept through the impact but Lottie, who was was outside, is not above gnawing on anything that looks like a bird and tastes like a bird, alive or dead, so I went outside to shoo her away from his body while I debated what to do next.

She heard the thud too and was right there with a knife and fork, but he was still breathing,  so I grabbed her and put her in the house.  I hoped he'd be one of those silly birds that spank the window, sit down for a few minutes collecting their thoughts and then fly away fit as a fiddle.  Some are too injured to fly and suffer for a while before the angels come.  I hate that, but my skills aren't equal to bird rehabilitation, or even convalescent care.  All I could do was prevent Lottie, who is a little closer to her hunting ancestry than Chase the doddering pacifist, from chewing on Mr Bird while he counted out the minutes.

He died by the time I got back out there.  He was so beautiful:  stunning black-and-white houndstooth vest, tail feathers shiny black on top and burnt orange velvet below, and a soft brown face with a long strong beak.  I moved him a little, just in case, but he was dead as a doornail.  I hoped he didn't have a family of hungry babies waiting in the nest for their dinner of grubs.  Later Google identified him  as a Western Flicker, who behaves like a woodpecker.  He (or one of his teammates) had lived in my neighborhood for several years, making woodpecker noises.

Now he's gone.  I  wrapped him in a plastic bag and put him in the trash can so Lottie, or any other creature, wouldn't ravage his carcass, and I wouldn't have to dispose of him in a week when he had grown significantly less lovely.

Poor birdie.

In other news, Chase heard about a new fad, like Planking or Draping, called Cat Breading,  and he pestered me until I fixed his costume and snapped a picture.  He is especially pleased that he's the same color as Sara Lee Whole Wheat Lite bread.  Perhaps all this talk about dead birds was kind of a downer; or else he already forgot.  Probably the latter.

Don't even think about it

This morning I decided to take a few minutes before I made lunch and run the vacuum around.  My previous vacuum blew up a while ago and I replaced it with a Shark Navigator; a bagless dynamo that I adore.   I thought it was picking up WAY more dirt than the old vacuum had and I soon realized, with intense shame, that all carpet is just basically dirty and now I could SEE that every several days I was sucking up a double handful of hair, dust, crumbs, etc.  Eeeww.  Sometimes at night, instead of peacefully sleeping,  I think of all those years I went a week [or four] [or longer in tight spaces or empty rooms] without vacuuming because the carpet still looked clean.  But it wasn't; it was loaded with disgusting crud, of which I was blithely unaware.  If there is a heaven, I will not be allowed in because I was oblivious to the cruddy carpet.

Where was I?  Oh yes.  I decided to vacuum and then, because I had seen a dust bunny lurking under the edge of the refrigerator, wrapped a rag around the yardstick to chase out the bunny and any of his friends and relations nibbling on the dry cat food that had sneaked under there too.

The rag-wrapped yardstick wouldn't fit.  But my refrigerator has little wheels and is relatively easy to roll out of its parking space, so that's what I did.

My little project began to expand to fill the time slot previously assigned to making and eating lunch.  Because of course when you have ample time to do something and approach it with all the necessary supplies and equipment and are dressed appropriately and have already eaten a satisfying meal, the next thing that happened, doesn't happen.

On top of my refrigerator is a pickle jar filled with kombucha tea mother.  It is Lillie's edible pet and lives there quietly, peacefully growing thick layers of gelatinous mushroomy blobs.  (Sounds delicious, right? She likes it and doesn't serve me any, so I don't care.  Remember when you used to keep a Tupperware bowl of sourdough starter on your counter?  Like that.)  She has another, bigger kombucha mother that lives on the counter that she replenishes and drinks the tea; but the fridge-top pet is, I guess, a spare which we ignore most of the time.  Until today.  When I rolled the refrigerator out it must have startled the jar, which panicked and leaped to its death, shattering on the floor and splattering big slithery kombucha blobs  and broken glass across the layer of dust bunnies and dry cat food.

The whole house instantly smelled like a distillery. Yeasty and vinegary.  Powerful.  Fortunately today is warm so I opened all the windows.

I scraped up the swampy layer of glass shards, bunny wads, cat food and kombucha  flop.  I washed the whole floor and wiped the walls and cabinet doors.  I emptied the trash, which smelled like a salad.

Her priorities will change when she realizes she has slivers of glass in her knees.

Since my fresh-this-morning yoga pants were already wet and dirty, I decided to clean under the stove, washer and dryer, and then I mopped the laundry room and both bathrooms.  Since the floors were clean, I sprayed and wiped down the sinks, counters and toilets, and then gathered up a load of towels and my yoga pants and started the washer.  And the dishwasher, which was full.  (If you give a mouse a mortgage...)

All I originally wanted to do was a quick vacuum.  The most discouraging aspect, aside from being extra hungry, is that everything looks essentially the same as before, but it's two hours later.  Lillie was able to rinse off a few of the grimy kombucha blobs and turn them loose in a new jar.  We've elected to keep this one in a cabinet.

There are no pictures of this adventure because at the time I was not having much fun, or technically any fun at all, and who wants to see pictures of me not having any fun?

I'll be on the lookout for photo opportunities that feature me having a big old time.  Like splash dogs.  Nobody has more fun, ever, than splash dogs.

This splash dog,  Josh,  didn't even place but he didn't care because he was having the Best. Day. Ever.

No more elephants. For now.

On Sundays Chase likes to read the paper.  And take a nap.

He didn't care that my other fabric had arrived from Santa's workshop Amazon.  But Lottie decided it was fabulous, and I agree.  I was surprised at how large-scale the pattern is; in two yards there are only a couple of repeats.  The color is wonderful, kind of golden-yellow on cream and the cotton fabric is nice and heavy.  I washed and dried it and it shrank about six inches each way so there wasn't enough left to make anything except coasters to put under our coffee cups.  It only took a few minutes to hem up a biq square (I hemmed a black sheet round to go underneath it back when I made the table, so I wouldn't need as much fabric for the topper).

And there it is.  I wish all my projects were so easy.

How's the car?

This morning my check-engine light came on.  My little Camry is very reliable, but it is now fourteen years old (which seems impossible to me) and from time to time problems crop up.  I wasn't terribly worried but called my mechanic, also very reliable, and arranged to bring the car in to be diagnosed.

The funny thing is that when I saw that check-engine light I immediately thought of my dad.  "It's my Janny!" he would exclaim when I called him or when he'd call me.  And then he'd say, "How's the car?"  I suppose that phrase embodies the perpetual worry about their children that many fathers carry with them.  It meant, how was I getting along in the world?  Did I have what I needed to get by?  Was I safe?

My parents divorced when I was small and I grew up without my dad under my roof.  I saw him regularly but we didn't have a particularly close relationship.  (Although many of my friends whose fathers did live with them report not being especially close to their dads, either.)  I'm sure I was an adult before I gave any thought to what that was like for him.  He was as much a product of the times as I was and I recall one of his oft-repeated mottoes was, "never cry unless there's blood" which seemed to reflect his dismay at having fussy children who bawled about everything.  He also said,  "eat what's near" because he grew up in a large, poor family and cleaned his own plate but spawned such thin and picky eaters it's a wonder we lived.

(Disclaimer: I apologize in advance to any of my siblings who might rightfully argue that they were not crybabies and that I, in fact, was the whiner.  Whatever.   Dad also told me that I got "the good feet and the good ears" and I'm not sure what special attributes he assigned to any of them but I have always been very vain about my fine flat ears and stunning feet.)

My old dad tried hard to teach me how to change my oil and a flat tire and put on chains.  He could fix anything, build anything, and make anything grow.  Understandably, he must have wondered how I would ever get by, especially when it became clear that there wouldn't be a man around to do any of those things for me.  It may just have been a reflex to ask "How's the car?"  but now I understand what it means to have a child wandering loose in the world without a dad to fix everything.

My dear mechanic just called to tell me that he's sorry but the Camry needs a lot of work.  Of course  I don't relish the idea of my meager, carefully guarded savings account sagging even more than it already is,  but maintenance is as inevitable as heartache and my little car needs to last well into the foreseeable future.

Dad would roll in his grave if he knew that  Al Hart's Chevron  was now a head shop.  Sigh.

So at least for now, Dad, the car's all right.

Since I'm here anyway

So this is what I had before.  My couch and loveseat are practically perfect: exceedingly deep and comfortable AND the zippered microfiber cushion covers are washable.  I used to launder my old sofa's cushion covers so I felt brave enough to peel these off and throw them in.  They never appeared to be dirty, but the wash water was nasty.  Imagine not washing your jeans for years? Gaaah. I just wish I could wash the whole thing.   The loose pillows that came with it just never rang my bell.  (The chrysanthemum pillow was a World Market find and I made the dia de los muertos one; that's a recurring theme around here.)  I also made the elephant print table cover. Every room should have an elephant in it somewhere.

And that reminds me:  I made the table!  I needed a good sized corner table because the couches are 40" deep, so I marched over to Lowe's and bought a 36" round top, boards for the legs and  eight brackets, and screwed the whole pile together.  I keep wine and beer under there and apparently a bunch of other junk I had forgotten about.  I'll get on that shortly.

Full disclosure:  here's what's under my round table.  What a mess!  I mean what fine craftsmanship!

My former mother-in-law gave me some Christmas money a while back and I replaced the murky and cheap magnolia print from Big Lots that hung behind the couch with this bright canvas from World Market (25% off.) It became the inspiration I needed to finally make new pillows.  Her house is filled with lovely [real] art so that seemed like the proper option.  She seems to still like me and I appreciate her not throwing the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak.

Move over, Nate Berkus.

Lillian and I cut open the pillows only to discover that there were no liners--just bunchy wads of polyfill.  For hours and hours we fluffed and stuffed until we had eight big bouncy pillow forms made (by me) of old sheets.  I worried that the dot pillows would look crumpled but the piping kind of holds them up.  Piping, by the way, is so easy to make--I just folded grosgrain ribbon over 3/8" cording (JoAnn) and sewed it with the zipper foot, but then it was a stinker to get both halves to fit together.  After the first one I abandoned my plan to have the zippers along the piped edge, and placed them about three inches in from the side, so they're hidden when flipped around to the back.  The chevron pillows  have a plain seamed edge so those zippers went in with no problem, and the cream ones have an envelope closure with buttons (from my button jar) sewn on.  I found the plum velveteen pillows at World Market on sale--I couldn't have bought the fabric and zippers for much less.

I made four each of the chevron and print plus two smaller cream ones.  

Just in case you accidentally assumed I've always had good taste and was proficient at the sewing machine (and I can forgive you if you did),  here is a ghastly little quilt I made with the ugliest textile scraps in the free world.  In my rather lame defense, I made it when I was about ten or twelve.  I actually sewed (and wore, God help me) a garment out of each fabric, except for a few that my grandmother made into glider cushions, or perhaps a bed for her old cat Scrapper (who was mine when I was little). 

 My current cats admire it but I think it should to go back into the cedar chest so someday my grandchildren can snicker at it.

But why, you might reasonably wonder, should my couches have all the fun?  The rest of the room, except for the spanking new coffee table I bought last year,  was equally dreary.  So I decided to change the stuff hanging over the fireplace.

(I tried to hang the skeleton print there but she was a little too small, so she's cozily watching us go up and down the hall, thanks for asking.)

I found this hammered metal star 70% off at JoAnn and finally expanded the display upwards on the tall fireplace wall.  The seaside photo was taken by my former father-in-law decades ago and I am hoping to replace it with one of the spectacular pictures of zebras or lions or--hey!--elephants! taken by my friend Dr L on safari in Africa.  The one on the bottom that looks like a painting of crap is really a mirror reflecting actual crap.  Art imitating life.

This image didn't enlarge too well.  That's the fabric (Amazon; my best friend!) I found to make a new table cover.  It kind of echoes the shapes in the abstract dot print, but on a larger scale. There should be enough left to make either one more pillow or a runner for the top of the coffee table.  (Hemnes from Ikea.  Ikea is my second-best friend.)  I haven't ordered it yet, but when I finish those I'll post a picture.

And that concludes my DIY post for February, dismal photos and all.  Fortunately for you there are thousands of other sites bursting with crafting and homemaking advice.  Off to Pinterest with you, then!

Finally, today is my sister Susan's birthday.  Sue is my role model in every way: she is so beautiful, very fit, really smart, a wonderful cook, a fun grandma, and her house is immaculate.  Most remarkably (to me), she does not own one single useless item.  I've long since stopped thinking I can ever be like her, but it's nice enough just warming myself in the reflected glow. 

And oh yes, Happy Valentine's Day.  I baked cupcakes for the family Lillian babysits for, and by some coincidence there was extra orange creamcheese frosting.  Oh dear!

A little more cat hair and they'll be perfect.

Never mind, I'll do it myself

That's the story of my life.

I will be the first one to point out that this is not a DIY site.  I do all kinds of things myself of course, but I seldom photograph them.  Why is this?  My daughter's blog is full of her DIY projects, some of which feature one of my hands, and sometimes I take pictures of her talents or outfits.

Well then; no time like the present:  here is a project I recently completed:  sewing new white liners to replace the Christmasy ones on some baskets we bought at Michaels (for 80% off!)  (In Lillian's bathroom, they sport dia de los muertos print.  Maybe she'll post those; they are very snappy.)

This one lives on my toilet tank and holds hair appliances and hairbrushes. 

Peace on Earth, especially in the bathroom.

This is another one with its new liner; it lives on my bathroom counter and holds all the crap I need to be presentable every day.  (Except for makeup.   I probably need a cuter box for that, too.  Hmmm.  Makeup lives over by the big bedroom window because good light [and the magnifying mirror] are non-negotiable.)

DIY alert: I made the ceramic swan when I was little, in the olden days when there was art in school.  You know you are young if you did not have art in school.

An upcoming project is sewing new covers for the eight large (and four small--nothing chosen for those yet) pillows that go on my couch and loveseat. Here is a peek at that fabric--a poor picture but I promise to take before-and-after shots.  I am planning on putting a zipper in each one so I can wash them; which has me a little twitchy even though I have been sewing zippers for decades several years.  I definitely don't want these to look homemade.  I found the fabric on Amazon (you know I love Amazon) for far less than anything at JoAnn, even though buying online is a kind of a pig in a poke.  The chevron is sturdy twill but  the dot print is very soft fabric like sheets, and I worry that it will crease with use.  I guess I'll find out!

DIY blogger fail:  I didn't even iron these or bother to lay them out straight.  Sheesh.

My inspiration is a large art print I bought [with Christmas money] last year at World Market--the pillows currently have dark autumn colors and aren't that bad, but I knew when I [finally after twenty five years] purchased new furniture (on close-out a couple of years ago)  that I would eventually want prettier covers.  My carpet is taupe (think chocolate milk) and really asks for lighter, brighter pillows.  My kids are all colorblind, apparently, because they insist that it's gray.  They also think my walls are beige which is completely false; they are sage green.  They are.

I will work on the photography issue--all I have is my little ATT phone camera.  Lillian can take pictures with her iPhone or camera which she will do if I ask her but it makes me feel like an old pest.  Incidentally, I mostly like not having a camera because it frees me from the guilt of not taking/saving/editing/sharing pictures of everything.  But I will never be any kind of internet DIY blogger without one, so you'll just have to get your fix from YoungHouseLove or Better After.

  

You know how you start to tidy up a little and next time you look up it's two hours later and your hands are  all chapped from scrubbing? Yeah, I don't either, but for some reason yesterday I went into the kitchen just to empty the dishwasher and instead washed the floor, the counters, the cabinet doors, the microwave and stove top, put away a mess of driftwad that had migrated to the counters, finally tossed the nasty old green wire basket next to the sink and replaced it with a fresh new white one (Dollar Tree!), and put out a new sponge.  And I remembered to empty the dishwasher.

I did not quite manage to clean the refrigerator; maybe next time I'm in heels.

Remember the dancing skeleton from my last post?  I'll wait while you go look.  Isn't she dear?  I printed a bigger image onto heavy paper and I'm going to put her into a great frame and hang her on my wall.  I love that skeleton.  I like to think she's me, underneath it all...

The old gray mare just ain't what she used to be. Or is she?

Friday night the Jeepster took me to dinner to celebrate the fairly good chance that he will be offered a plum new job.  We went to my favorite local restaurant, Tapas Downtown, and it was pleasantly crowded. While we waited at the bar for a table a casual friend, whom I hadn't seen in the year or so since I quit working, came over to hug me and tell me how terrific I look and how I would definitely find a great job soon because, essentially, I'm too good to be true.

There is nothing like a compliment, or even better a thick layer of compliments, to bolster one's flagging self-confidence.  Especially praise from an attractive, charming and very successful woman; why would I argue with that?

So when the hostess came to fetch us I was feeling buoyant and adorable and naturally she seated us a scant twenty inches from a man with whom I had a serious yearlong relationship, which he terminated because I was, as I recall,  no fun.  Hold the phone, didn't a very reliable source just tell me I was fabulous?

However, this was a celebration of sorts and I have at least a modicum of class, so I kept my mouth closed and my eyes averted while Dr Fun liplocked with his date, seated a mere twelve inches to my right.  I am not making that up.  They were kissing across the table.  They were making the yummy sound.  They probably got sauce on their shirts.  I imagined spilling a diet Pepsi into his lap but my mother raised me better than that.  Also I am cuter than Fun Date. And I would never make out in a restaurant.

I like to believe I know better but I suddenly I felt faded and shabby and acutely not fun.  Of course I need to listen to actual people who prop me up and not the inner voices who chide me for growing out my gray hair; for gaining ten pounds; for failing at my job after eight years of success.  But without a doubt, it's a journey with no clear destination in sight.

Seriously though:  the yummy sound?  I give up.

In 2012

Can I be mindful and loving of whatever arises?

If I can't be loving in this moment, can I be kind?

If I can't be kind, can I be non-judgmental?

If I can't be non-judgmental, can I not cause harm?

And if I cannot not cause harm, can I cause the least amount of harm possible?

I will try if you will try

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

Love, Jenny

~ thanks to dear J. for finding my thoughts and handing them back to me ~

I'll be home for Christmas

Christmas is right around the corner.  

When my kids were really little,  they wanted to have Santa come before they left to spend Christmas break with their Dad's family, and I'd spend the 25th with my friends or take my Mom to see my siblings.  Some years were a little dreary and blue because I felt like I couldn't ever get ahead or feel secure.  After I bought the house  and started making better money at the blood bank, the holidays weren't so stressful, but this year I can only think about being unemployed and worrying about what the future holds.  What about my little house; my home?  Should I make another batch of fudge?

In my town are a pair of bald eagles, Patriot and Liberty.  Rather than being shy and reclusive, they chose a tree in a swamp right next to a busy freeway.  "Look, honey, prime riverfront property with great restaurants and a short commute!  Let's live right here!"  So they built a giant nest out of sticks. When CalTrans decided to widen the freeway, with noisy equipment and glaring lights night and day for a year or two,  they wired a giant plastic cone over the eagles' nest to convince them to move elsewhere because they were too sensitive to handle the commotion.  Mr and Mrs Bald Eagle, as any homeowners might, tried unsuccessfully to pry off the cone until their (human) fan club convinced CalTrans to remove it.  The birds promptly laid more eggs and ate salmon and waved at drivers on the freeway.  They are celebrities with their own website and a book; so after this year's annual vacation they decided that their messy old nest was outdated and built a fancy new one a few trees away.  I think Liberty told Patriot that she was looking on Facebook and saw intrusive videos taken with the webcam aimed right at their bedroom.  Over the years, the eagles have hatched a dozen adorable eaglets in their public nest, including two very rare sets of triplets.  They seem to be living happily ever after.

I suspect there is a parable here; I'm just not entirely sure what it is.

Leaving on a jet plane

I, the reluctant adventurer, will be away from home for two weeks.  Two weeks!  An eternity for someone who feels like a trip to the mall is a major undertaking and two nights in a bathroomless cabin gives me blind spots in my visual field.  

My forever friend Dr L lives on a horse farm out in the boondocks beyond Los Angeles.  I haven't been in her neck of the woods since we were both in college, so I'm long overdue for a visit.  We have both reached the age where the occasional bit of repair work is necessary, here and there, and it's currently her turn.  Her grown daughter managed to schedule her wisdom teeth extraction on the same day and so will be indisposed (and probably either loopy or cranky or both,) and her dear husband is, well, a husband and not especially well suited for the role of Cherry Ames, RN.  So under the very democratic system known as "who can be slightly less under-qualified?"; I rocket straight to the front of the pack.  You advertised for a smoothie maker, dog-petter, tv remote finder, and toenail painter?  Maybe throw a load of towels in the machine?  I'm your candidate!

Remember when you were a little girl (excuse me, all former little boys, but you might as well log off right now) and you loved everything about horses, played with horses, pretended to BE a horse, dreamed about horses, and fully expected to grow up and be a horse vet or a horse trainer or just have a bunch of horses?  Dr L is living the dream.  She IS a vet and HAS a bunch of horses.  Although at one point in my past I actually had my very own horse [dearly departed Buttons], that wagon rolled decades ago and all I have left of my childhood devotion is a box of Breyer models (not including the classic beauties I  foolishly gave away to some little kid who probably broke them or lost them--sometimes when I don't have anything else to kick myself about, I like to torture myself with that.)  I suspect Dr L's real live horses will see right through me.  Hey, don't hate me, horsies.  It was a really long time ago.

This trip also includes Thanksgiving which means cooking and eating, two of my favorite things to do, and also a hit-and run visit with my niece.   I have a whole armload of nieces but this one shares that special one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-others gene with me.  

And speaking of travel anxiety, I'm off to plan the rest of this adventure while trying not to picture my house being broken into and robbed and my cats all cold and hungry.  See you on the other side.

You say potato

Here is the perfect stone tablet! rock to paint my house numbers on.  I am sorry to say that I inherited a genetic obsession with rocks, which I will someday explain.  I found this one while jeeping up in the mountains.  

Another day, another jeep ride.

A little while ago I had two dying trees taken out of my front yard and the raw empty space reveals more of my neighbors' ghetto tin-roofed side yard than I wish to look at,  so I decided to fill in the hole with a Western Redbud, which I have always loved.  When I was a child we had a beautiful redbud in  the front yard and also, they are hardy natives which shouldn't require much water after a few years; which is important  because the drip system doesn't go that far.  I showed the newly bare spot to the Jeepster and told him how I had decided on a redbud as just the right size and shape for the space.  Several times he said "redwood" and I said "no, redBUD", and then I forgot about it.

Like this

When we were jeeping up in the hills I pointed out many pretty wild Western Redbud trees and he agreed it was a graceful and lovely plant, and then I forgot about it.

Tuesday was my birthday (I know, right?) and I celebrated by accompanying Lillian to the dentist and doing a little organizing in the garage.   The birthday fairy has jury duty but dropped by with a gift and imagine my acute surprise when wedged in the front seat of the Jeep I found a four foot high redwood tree.  

Maybe not so much

Any of you remember the Bob Newhart Show?  It was one of my all-time favorite series.  Well, remember when Bob gave Emily a blenderizer for her anniversary present?  Uh-oh!  They built a half-hour episode around his failure to understand that a blenderizer is not what she had in mind as a romantic gesture.  Sure, I covet diamonds but deep down I'm really a blenderizer girl--some of my most loved gifts have been a lawnmower, a Meyer Lemon tree, my MacBook Pro, and for this birthday, a very timely gas water heater.

Because my little house sits on a fifth of an acre in the middle of town.  Where you just might expect to see a pretty little Western Redbud Tree.  The other option might solve the ghetto tin-roofed side yard problem, though.

Spider redux

I suppose it was just a matter of time.  I needed to replace a lightbulb out by the garage, but being too short to accomplish this chore without a stepladder, I asked Lillian to do it.  While she was busy being tall and useful she came face to face with, ah yes, a really big spider, crouching on an eave, no doubt waiting for one of us to leave a door or window open to the pleasant autumn weather so he could sneak into my house.

Faithful readers will recall that I have a Hatfields-and-McCoys relationship with the creatures who share my property.  Here's the deal, nature: I pay the mortgage, so I get to decide who comes in and who stays out.  My cats come in; their cats stay out.  My kids come in; traveling salesmen stay out.  The occasional burglar comes in without my permission; and so do random spiders, lizards, snakes, and bees. [My grandma kept a little window open year round so her cat Scrapper could come and go and at one point a large, nasty--and evidently unwell--opossum clambered in and subsequently died in her back hall.  Gaaah.  Maybe because her house was fully paid for?]

Anyway you will also recall that I described my children as weenie cowards afraid of spiders.  They all are.  After much discussion, and providing Little Miss Muffett with a flyswatter, flipflop and broom, she managed to gently nudge the spider into a crack, annoying him (and me) in the process and convincing him that his next move should definitely be straight into my house so he could bite and paralyze us while we sleep.  It took another twenty minutes and threats of fetching the stepladder so I could dispatch him by myself, but she managed (while screaming) to knock him to the driveway where I sent him straight to hell with the flipflop.  I have almost no sense of balance and stepladders and I are not friends or I would have done the whole operation without help.

When it comes to swatting spiders you can't overthink it.  See it--kill it--apologize to Buddhists later.  I Googled spiders just now and decided that this beast (a homeboy of the monster who came in last winter) was  probably an innocent-sounding "house spider" which certainly sounds like he is genetically designed to live cozily in my underwear drawer but makes me sure that Darwin was wrong about one or two things.  And if you want to creep yourself out entirely, spend a few moments googling "spider" so you can see hundreds of pictures of spiders on the computer screen and can spend the next hour trying to get all your flesh to unclench from around your neck.  Sweet dreams!

Post-mortem:  In all fairness, Lillian has a skill far more valuable than spider slaying.  She is an unsurpassed sparkly thing finder.  This morning I discovered one mortgage-payment, girls-best-friend earring was not in its ear-hole--and of course I had just been outside stuffing tree branches into the green can (yes I know better and am generally very careful about those earrings, but the urge to stuff just came over me when I went out to get the Sunday paper.) As I was digging desperately through my pillows and blankets she pounced right on the earring, twinkling on the carpet by my bed.  My daughter the magpie.