I May Not Be Jim Carrey, But A Number Plagues Me Nonetheless

Our fiend of the day is not in fact so much a physical force or an animate being. It is more of an idea, an abstract thought put into concrete form.
It is the number 27.
The aforementioned number and I have been on ill terms since it first came into my life in... eegads!... could it really be... third grade?! And ever since it's first entrance in my life, it has symbolized irritation.
When I was learning my multiplication tables as a young and innocent child, the nines stubbornly refused to be placed in my memory... particularly one equation: 3 x 9. For days my dad plagued me (helped me, he called it) by incessantly POUNDING these numbers into my head. "Three times nine?" "TWENTY-SEVEN!" I would scream, wanting to make it go away.
It was a warm fall day, (yes, this is SC, do not tell me that a warm fall day is an oxymoron) and it was the worst day of my life. Nothing went right on that accursed, ill-omened day. I nearly failed my science test, my mother chewed me out for something that I feel sure is surely insignificant, and my then-best friend called me crying from somewhere... yeah. When I looked at the calendar, the date was the 27th.
Further proof that 27 and all things related are doomed?
A girl I once was friends with (who turned out to be a maniac) had a date of birth that, when the digits were multiplied, became 27.
When I was 14, my first ever job ended up bearing a Federal tax deduction of 27 dollars.
I could go on but I think anything related to taxes is evidence enough that the subject discussed is evil. Which leads us to my next enemy...

The Charlatan of the Kitchen

Today's topic features a particularly persistent nuisance that
is, surprisingly enough, a common household article. However, do not let its cheery yellow packaging disarm you. It is a cruel device that has actually been used in many infamous murders. There are three rolls of it sitting atop my parent's refrigerator right now. Can you guess what it is?
That's right. Saran wrap.
I absolutely, incomprehensibly, utterly and in the most
undeterred passion of my existence, HATE Saran wrap. It is a vile fiend that does not even come close to preserving food. Ha! It merely exists to stick to itself, bind my hands and produce a lovely breeding ground for bacteria because it won't stick to the bowl I am trying to cover.
Saran wrap travels under many names and guises. [Add generic
store name here] plastic wrap. Cling wrap. Despite these names, it
never changes. Packaged in an falsely optimistic color, such as yellow, it looks promising enough. Alas for appearances. Beneath a flap of cardboard lurks a strip of serrated metal which snags everything in existence BUT Saran wrap.
The moral of this post? Saran wrap is a lying charlatan that should be shunned from shelves and homes. Buy aluminum.

Spider-Man, Spider-Man, Does Whatever a Spider Can (Like Scaring the Daylights Out of My Sister and Me)

In my previous posts I have mentioned two of my arch enemies: Gravity and the Stairs. Today I will be moving on to a group of creatures so vile, I hesitate even to call them "creatures". No. No living thing could be so evil as this all-encompassing entity that is known as: the Spider.

Spiders and I have been on ill-terms since I was a young child. When one would creep across my floor, the situation usually resulted with me screaming at the top of my lungs, and some weary family member dragging themselves in to kill it. I am not quite sure why I am so repulsed by spiders. Actually, I am pretty compassionate to most living things. If a spider is outside and away from my house I feel no pressing urge to kill it. However, once it crosses the steps to my house, it is on my turf. And it is my prey.

One instance in which a spider inched into my life was when my equally arachnaphobic sister Rose (is arachnaphobic a word? Spell check says no... well it should be)and I had the house to ourselves for a week. While our parents were chilling out in the Bahamas, they left us to the task of our lives.

Rose was about to get in the shower when she spotted one of the fiends sitting on the edge of the tile towards the ceiling. She shrieked, and I intrinsically knew. (How come they always like to hide in the shower and scare you?) I dashed to the door, knocked and asked rather rhetorically, "Are you okay?" "SPIDER!!" she cried and I ran to find a fly swatter.

When I returned, she had opened the bathroom door and was standing in a yellow fuzzy towel, staring at the spider in abject horror. "It's too high!" She protested, waving the pink swatter around manically. I stammered a moment before yelling, "Here!" and then shoved a can of Lysol (conveniently located under the sink) into her waiting hand. "Are you sure I should use this?" "Why not?!" I demanded. "Maybe it'll just grow it eight times its size!" "It'll work- JUST SPRAY IT!!"

The aerosol leaving the can hissed loudly, and was followed by a pungent mist which filled the air. As the death cloud descdended upon the spider, its legs branched out like an exploding koosh ball. Scuttling down the shower, instead of dying as it ought, my sister and I let loose a unison screech of horror... only to begin coughing and nearly retching on the Lysol mist still hanging in the air. Rose didn't even have time to rub in the fact that I was incorrect about Lysol killing spiders.

"DROWN IT!" I hacked, "DROWN IT!" One hand over mouth, Rose leaned forward and turned the faucet on, full blast, with the free hand. Within moments, the spider had slipped down the drain to his fate. We looked at each and laughed nervously before spending the next three days wearing a perpetually suspicious glance towards the shower.

To this day we still wonder if a mutant spider dwells somewhere in our septic system.

Stairway to Heaven (These Steps Are Trying to Kill Me!)

It is a well-known fact of life that Gravity and the Stairs have long been conspiring together against the innocent and clumsy. However, it has only been in more recent years that they picked their latest target: me. (This is probably due largely to the fact that I grew up in a one-story home)

Long had I lived a relatively normal life, when around the age of 12 gravity began to notice me. Unfortunately, "notice me" is used in this case as a euphemism for "began trying to slowly kill me". With much thanks to Gravity, I am forced to admit that I am completely incapable of safely walking down- or UP- stairs.

While it is true that three of my falls can be attributed to a rather slick-soled pair of shoes that I owned at the time, the rest were all due to Gravity- Gravity and his cruelest of accomplices. On one particular incident, (when the aforementioned shoes were safely in the closet) I was innocently walking down my best friend's stairs. Alas, far more diabolical plans had been set in motion for my descent. 

A mere three steps from my destination, I happened to look up back over my shoulder. Apparently, gravity had caused some unknown object to fall and surprise me with a "bang!". While this cruel little trick diverted my attention, the Stairs seem to shrink six inches. I moved my foot to step down, only to find the stair was not where it had been before. I tumbled down the last steps, hurting my pride and spraining my ankle. Now three steps may not seem like too many, that is until you fall down them. 

So many other similar incidents have occurred I find it pointless to even mention them. By this point, you may believe I have pretty efficiently lumped together all of the forces in this world that are out to get me. But you would be very wrong my friend. We are far from done.

Tales from the Tripped (In Other Words, My Life)

The following anecdotes I leave for you here are all true stories from my own life, told through a light-hearted slant. Enjoy!

Some would say I'm paranoid. But I say: Is it still paranoia if they really ARE out to get you? Let me introduce you to my first enemy: Gravity.

When I was a toddler and up until I was about 7 years old, I was convinced that flight existed somewhere within my realm of possibilities. The answer seemed simple. If I just flapped my arms hard enough, I would be off my feet and on my way in no time. I jumped from chairs. I jumped from the dining room table. Once, I even tried to crawl up the bookcase and jump from there. However, my mom spotted this before I reached the top, and quickly began what can only be described as a very decent imitation of a baboon first introduced to espresso. After screeching some manner of inane babble at me, she removed me from the vicinity of the bookcase and returned me to the floor.

This was when I first realized something was up (and it wasn't me). My arms wouldn't flap hard enough. I couldn't jump from high enough. My own mother even seemed to mock my dreams of flight. (Her psychological processes absolutely befuddled me. I never broke my neck doing anything.)And then one day I learned the awful truth.

There exists this force in the world called "gravity". Apparently, it hated me. It didn't matter to gravity how hard I flapped, how high I jumped or how badly I longed to fly. I would always get to know the ground better than I would like as I landed on my face one day and split my bottom lip.

Now, if a scar bedecking the lower right side of my mouth is not evidence enough gravity is out to get me, you can read on to my next post. It is the true story of my perpetual struggle with gravity and his accomplice: The Stairs.