Spiny orb weaver neighbors

On our pool deck, we have a spider species who love to spin webs in the most inopportune places like on the chairs and in the path of getting to the chemicals. These spiders are beautiful, small, and don't prove to be a bother other than their choice of where they set up their homes.

Recently, they have multiplied, or so it seems. It could be I'm outside by the pool more than in the past. I use my net to remove them from my path, and although I relocate them outside the pool deck, they are back the following morning or worse, outside the door where I need to exit.

Jim Stafford said it best when he sang the song, Spiders and Snakes. I don't like spiders and snakes.

We each have our places, and as long as we don't cross paths, I'm good. If these spiders would not build houses where I need to place my butt or where I need to walk, I'd be happy with them sharing my pool deck. And I've told them this.

Recently, I cleaned the windows in my Steelers room--in and out of the house, up and down on a ladder--navigating furniture on the patio and pool deck. As the sun peeked and the heat got to me, I thought about sitting on a chair outside one of the windows I was cleaning. Until I noticed something odd. On the back of the chair was a lime green circle. Upon closer examination, I took it to be a cocoon of some sort. Needless to say, I did not sit down.

My first thought was to squish it, but my older daughter--the one who captures and removes all living things from our house--has obviously gotten to me. I left it alone.

A few weeks later, I noticed another lime green cocoon on the underside of my umbrella on the pool deck. I did what anyone would do.

I Snapchatted it to my peeps and asked if anyone knew what the hell this thing was. Most of the responses were along with my own thoughts.

"Ugh."

"Whoa, what is that?"

"Whatever it is, can't be good."

Only one person responded helpfully. This came from my Snapchat streaker Emily--711 daily SnapChat streaks!

As soon as I saw it, I was like...why didn't this occur to me? While spider sac did pop into my head, it didn't look like what I'm used to, and so I didn't venture further in my thoughts.

Me: "Holy crap, it's the spider on my pool deck! Of course, this is it."

Boss: "What kind of spider?"

Me: "Spiny Orb Weaver"

Boss: "Oh, those are great spiders. They will keep areas free of insects. Like mosquitoes."

Me: "I don't have an insect problem on my pool deck, and I do not have mosquitoes."

Boss: "Exactly."

Yeah, okay, but a whole new crop of babies? In my pool deck? I turned it over to my husband. He relocated the sacs. Then I worried for a few days that the mothers were frantically searching for their babies.

Finally, I gave up. Knowing my husband, those spiders weren't relocated far. A reunion on my pool deck is most likely inevitable. In the scheme of spiders, I could do worse.

Drama and friendship

When Darcy was in middle school, she overheard a conversation I was having with a friend on the phone. I don't remember the gist of the conversation, but it involved a relationship with another friend and some trouble within our mother's group. Darcy was horrified.

Darcy: "Do you mean to tell me that this girl drama continues as ADULTS? I was hoping this was just a middle school thing."

Sorry kid. Relationships--all relationships--are messy. It only stops when the relationship is over.

I'm reminded of this daily as I navigate through the perils and joy of friendships.

I tend to keep my friend list short. Groups were never more than a handful. Relationships with good friends happened individually or in twos, and as time and life intervened, came and went. The great ones--those that no matter how much time has passed between visits, are picked up right where they have left it as if zero time has passed--those I still hold near and dear to my heart. I can count the number on one hand.

I've lost friends. Some through death. Some that faded slowly and vanished. Others that ended abruptly and without warning. All have been mourned. I've been told I rehash relationships much longer than the other person, and while I believe communication is vital, many times, I've been too afraid of the repercussions of opening a can of worms. So instead, I blame myself and go back over things until I drive myself crazy.

I've made plenty of mistakes. I have faults, despite my humor in saying I'm always right. I don't have the answers, but I sure try to help. More so than I'm probably needed, but I've lived a charmed life, and maybe, just maybe, that's why I gravitate toward friends who haven't. I'm a good listener. Unfortunately, I take after my mother. I want to solve the problems.

When Darcy made the comment above, I told her the secret was finding friends who gave as much as they got. Real friends are there in your times of trouble as you are there for theirs. If you're lucky, you have a handful. If not, all it takes is one.

Darcy: "It still doesn't cut down on the drama, though, right?"

Nope, but if it's still standing after the fires are extinguished, you've got yourself some gold.

Zero reason for spending time on my appearance

It's been eleven weeks since I had my hair cut. Shocking even for me. I try for every six weeks, usually make it within two weeks of the goal, and it's a frequent topic of conversation with my hairdresser. I use to schedule my next appointment when I paid for the current cut, but unknown scheduling with my kids' activities brought that to a halt, and despite emptying my nest, I never got back into the habit. Thus the eleven weeks of hair growth.

I'm not one who spends quality time on my appearance. I don't like myself in a mirror, especially now when my face is not that of thirty-year-old me who I am in my head. I'm also not satisfied with outward me, and I've made a NewYear's resolution to come to terms with that - enough where I don't mind my photo being taken. Something I truly, truly, hate.

During the eleven months between hair cuts, I decided my long hairstyle was not flattering, and I researched haircuts for women over fifty. Truthfully, I typed in hairstyles for women, and over fifty popped up in the search engine. Thanks, I'm sure in part to the many Amazon Alexas in every room of my house. The only offerings were of famous women, and I jokingly told my co-workers, whose opinions I was garnering, that I would march into the salon demanding to be turned me into Raquel Welch.

Hairdresser: "I hate to tell you this, but Raquel Welch wears wigs."

Sigh.

I knew I needed to go back to layering my hair, and with the help of my Friday volunteer co-workers, we decided on this hairstyle from this picture on the web of Faith Hill.

Hairdresser: "Oh, I can totally do that, but are you okay with losing at least two inches of length?"

My hairdresser has issues with shortening people's hair. She's had adverse reactions from customers who've lost their shit at their first glimpse into a mirror. She almost faints at the thought of trimming more than an inch from the head of someone with long hair and has hyperventilated twice at my youngest daughter's insistence of two different choppings. Now here I was asking for the same. My hairdresser insisted Faith's hair was even shorter than the two-inches she was recommending, and I agreed that mark was a good compromise.

First, she gave me more bangs. I could've stopped right there and been a happy customer. I've disliked my wispy bangs for a while now and had wondered if old age was causing this lack, but she miraculously made more, and I loved it.

Next, she moved to the back, and at the first snip, picked up the discarded hair from the floor to show me precisely what two-inches meant. I gave her the thumbs up.

Me: "Make me look like Faith Hill. Minus the blonde color."

I liked the result. Usually, I don't want my haircut until a couple of days later, but this time, I did. I really liked it. I thought I looked younger, and I felt great.

Hairdresser: "Don't be surprised if your daughters and husband don't notice. Especially the husband. Men don't notice stuff like this."

Yet, it was a dramatic change! Of course, they would notice.

Darcy didn't react right away. Home from college, she spotted me first, and when she did not respond immediately, I finger fluffed my hair to draw her attention.

Darcy: "I saw you got your hair cut. It looks the way I remember your hair being when I was a kid, so it's taking me a moment."

Me: "What does that mean? I look like Faith Hill."

Darcy: "I don't know who that is, but it makes you look younger."

When the eldest daughter also did not immediately comment on my cut, I assumed then my husband would definitely notice. Isn't that the way it always works? The opposite of what we expect? Also, how could he not?

He did not. He was more interested in the fact that Darcy was home as if he'd never known this was going to happen despite the phone call telling us she had scheduled a doctor's appointment and would be returning for it. I finger fluffed, I shook my hair from my face, and still, I got nothing.

The next morning Darcy and Tom were both in the living room when I entered.

Darcy: "It's so weird to see you see you look the way you did when I was ten years old."

Me: "Really? Well, at least you see a difference. Your dad didn't even notice my hair."

Tom: "I noticed you had hair."

Maybe if I start singing Faith Hill songs?

An apology to my youngest

In working on my resolutions, I've been tackling the editing of my blog. It's really an aside to tackle old resolutions, but I have so many projects I genuinely want to finish. Editing the blog is a priority because I'd like to have my blog made into a book for my kids. It's a diary of our lives, and I think they'd enjoy it.

In doing the editing - I try to get through five entries a day - I've come across interesting tidbits that have made me think. One is a perception people, including myself, had of Darcy from toddlerhood.

Like siblings who come after the firstborn, Darcy was compared to Madison, and because she was different and more outgoing and talkative and inquisitive, people would tell me I was going to have to "watch out for her when she's a teenager."

I never really believed people meant it literally. I took it as the silly joking things people said about the second child. You know, the comments about how the second child is "certainly not like my firstborn" or "If I knew what I'd be getting, I'd have only had one." I never believe any parent who said things like that because, well, it wasn't something I could fathom. My kids are everything. They are number one, and they come first, and my life was not complete until they entered my life. Truly. Motherhood is the greatest thing I've ever experienced, and I thank my lucky stars daily for being entrusted with their care. But that isn't to say, I didn't believe I'd need to keep an extra grip on Darcy, although as she got older, I remember being somewhat annoyed as the comments continued.

One of our closest friends regularly made comments as Darcy aged and inched closer and closer to graduating high school. It got to a point where Darcy wasn't interested in spending time with this friend because the hurt was too great. I should've stopped it. I'm not sure why I didn't. I may have made half-hearted comments to some those who piped in with a comment or two, but I'm ashamed I didn't tell those people and this friend to shove it. I'm more ashamed of any comments I may have made because in allowing these, I let my child believe being herself wasn't good enough, that being herself was somehow wrong or bad, and dammit, this kid has suffered for that.

She recently had her yearly check-up, and as I've done since she was born, I recorded this today in her electronic medical file. Then, for curiosity's sake, I read through it and discovered a pattern of stomach complaints, rashes, and chest pains. Tests were run and came back completely normal. Diagnosis? Stress, in most cases. Stress! She was ten years old!

She's talked to me about this topic since starting college. She's told me how she's worked hard to NOT be what everyone told her she would become. How she's held herself to a higher standard than her friends and family, and while I know she's proud of what she's accomplished, to what degree is the damage for being perfect?

I can give you excuses. While there is a vast amount of information on parenting, it is mostly instinct and behavior learned from our own parents, along with a stubbornness to NOT make the same mistakes we blamed our parents for, and for the most part, we fly blindly through parenting. I chose to stay home with my children, and their success meant validation for doing so. All true, but certainly not good enough in hurting my kid.

Whenever this topic haunts me, I'm reminded of something one of Darcy's first-grade teachers said to me halfway through the school year. The woman told me while Darcy learns, she really takes what she learns, and relates the knowledge to the outside world, and to what it may or may not mean for her, and for those around her. 

The teacher said that was highly unusual at this age and said how much she enjoyed teaching Darcy because the kid soaked everything in, asked questions because she genuinely was curious, and then took all of what she learned and ran with it.

That teacher left before Darcy finished the grade. It saddened me then, and it saddens me now because that woman could've taught me a lot.

I'm sorry, Darcy. For many things, but mainly for not having your back against those who made you feel inadequate. I'm sorry for my role in doing the same. I'm so proud of the kid you were and the woman you've become, and while you've struggled with yourself and forced yourself to succeed, you were always going to do so no matter what anyone said.

So, be kind to yourself. Know that I love you, not for a 4.0-grade point average or for how much you make in life. I love you for your kindness, your humor, your big heart, and your vast personality. I love YOU. And from now on, I've got your back.

How to behave in the new hood

Several years ago, my neighborhood changed drastically. Death took a majority, others downsized, and my favorite of all neighbors moved to another state to be closer to his children. Where I once had a hood of familiarity and friendships intimate enough to refer to the same as family, I now have strangers who want little or zero contact.

Major upheaval in life. Or at least in my life.

Because gone are the days of knocking on neighbor's doors for borrowed sugar. Now, according to one of the new neighbors, a knock brings a greeter carrying a gun.

Gone are the days of sitting in garages drinking coffee and chatting up those passing by. Now, the garage doors are tightly closed as soon as a car enters or exits. Gone are the days of dinner invitations, block parties, and general niceties. Now, we're lucky to get a smile, a wave, or a mumbled greeting, let alone a sentence or two.

Perhaps it is also my fault. While I did greet new neighbors as they moved in, I haven't gone out of my way to further a relationship, preferring to gripe instead of their lack of what I call, "Midwest neighborhood-ness." Meaning, as it was in my youth, welcoming neighbors and bringing them, or pushing them, into the fold. Making them a part of the established group.

Once, during one of our frenzied hurricane preparation periods, I remarked to a new neighbor about his parked boat having been moved.

Me: "I was holding on to hope that your boat would lead us out of the expected neighborhood flood."

I was joking, of course. We sit on a hill. There is little chance of flooding.

He, however, did not chuckle. He snarled and then went on a ten-minute rant concerning a letter he'd received from the neighborhood association board informing him he'd exceeded the seventy-two hour parking period. He commented on neighbors further down the street in error of the deed-restricted rules. I was treated to angry words and a tirade on "whatever busybody neighbor had turned me in."

Me: (to my husband later) "I assured him it wasn't us, but I wanted to respond with a dressing down on how if he spent more time interacting or exchanging hellos with the neighbors around him, they might not be so inclined to report him."

The next day the same neighbor invited me into his house to see his renovations. I was walking my dog, but he insisted I bring in Elliot, and as the two of us heading into the front door, I looked back into our hood, hoping someone was watching me entering this angry stranger's house in case Elliot and I were never seen again.

Yikes! If I think this about my neighbors, what must they think of us? I wasn't precisely channeling my "Midwest neighborhood-ness."

This whole introduction is leading up to a problem we are currently having with my next-door neighbor, who has started taking to throwing out chicken bones into his front yard. Or maybe it's a whole chicken, I'm not sure. All I know is that my dog really likes this new occurrence.

Now, back in the old days, we tossed out dinner bones for the neighborhood dogs. Because one, dogs roamed untethered, and because two, the damage bones did to animals' teeth, and stomachs hadn't been discovered yet.

But having had to take my dog to the emergency vet following his ingestion of a pork bone, we are very leery of giving Elliot any type of bone, dog-made or otherwise, and these bones next-door are making potty runs and walking trips quite tricky.

My dog is ten years old and does a relatively decent job of remaining in our yard without a leash. Others have pointed out that perhaps the neighbor doesn't agree with us on this, but seeing how the neighbor's yard is certainly not up to our association code, I doubt he cares a hoot about our playing loose and fancy with the leash law. Which I believe pertains only to dogs outside of their own yards. 

Sure, the neighbor could prefer to not have my dog in his yard, but other than sniffing a rabbit under his bush, Elliot doesn't usually set foot in the yard because well, it isn't much of a yard. And even if my dog spent hours in this yard, throwing whole chickens or bones is a bit passive-aggressive, in my opinion. Having vast experience in the "Midwest neighborhood-ness."

The question is, how do I handle this situation?

My experience says to speak with my neighbor. Find out why he throws dead animal carcasses into his front yard and ask nicely if he could stop doing so. Or approach him another way and ask him if he knows a chicken died in his front yard. I've thought up several different approaches, but our friends and family members cringe at these, offering the other side where I'm a terrible dog owner, and while I admit some fault, I'm still good with hearing it from my neighbor's lips. As long as the communication is respectful and friendly.

This is how we always handled things before in our hood. We communicated. Granted, there was one incident that wasn't so friendly, and many feelings were hurt, but for the most part, we always spoke kindly with one another and came to an agreement we could all live with peacefully. Then we had a cocktail.

This new hood? These new neighbors? These tumultuous days of pent-up rage? I'm at a loss. Any suggestions?