41... and Done!

I was just reading over last year's birthday post... and, wow! I really sucked at turning 40!

What is it about that milestone that does so much damage to a woman's psyche?

As I ring in 41 this week, let's look back at the kind:cruel ratio that was my Year of Forty.

• The Quickest Mid-Life Crisis in History: I whined, complained and threw cyber-tantrums as I crested the middle-aged slope and fell directly off its cliff. It was a quick freefall and then I was like, "Oh, sorry about that world!" and went back about my regularly-scheduled business. I like to think that what it lacked in longevity it made up for explosiveness. Was it fair to the world? No. But the world survived it, so I'm over it too. 

• Finally Found a Home: The last thing on my "40" bucket list was to purchase real estate and be living in said real estate by the end of the year. Due to my stubbornness over price and location, it took me an entire year of house-hunting to achieve this final tick mark. (Not to mention, four different mailing addresses in the same amount of time. Believe me when I say that my year of homelessness is still confusing the local post office!) So, does signing the deed at the age of 40.8 still make the cut? It counts in my book! And, being stubborn paid off. I'm in exactly the location I had my heart set on and actually came in under budget, too!

• My Boobs are Playing Tricks on Me: It seems like much more than a year ago that I had my first breast cancer scare, but it was just last summer. Tacky as it may have seemed to some when I decided to share that journey; the conversations it started among friends and family really proved to be worth the embarrassing exchange. (Click link for a recap. To those who missed the follow-up, it was just a cyst in the end!) It seems most women at this age have had their "scares" and for someone who once favored male friendships over female, it really proved to me the necessity of the female-sisterhood. (Love you, ladies!) In other boob news, is there a once-a-decade law of physics that is keeping the bra industry in business?! It happened at thirty when the elasticity of the dermis began to betray me. New bra size! Must go shopping! And, here it is again at forty. Holy tit! As if gravity weren't enough of a foe, they've now decided to go running off in opposite directions! It's like each side is in a race to see who can reach my back first by the age of fifty!* And, of course, hello! New bra size again! This is getting old business is expensive business.

Somehow, this is the only Before/After depiction I could
find on my laptop!

• Lost Weight: I have always been cursed in the weight department. (By "American fashion" standards, at least.) I was a tall gangly child, who got called "String Bean", "Carpenter's Dream"** and the like, more often than necessary. (It's really not necessary to comment on children's body types. Ever. Or, anyone's, for that matter. Will the world never learn?!) Once puberty hit, I was hippy and bootylicious during the entire Kate Moss waif trend. Then, totally missing the boat on both ends, my body chose to revert back to waify twelve-year old proportions in middle-age, just in time to usher in the decade of the butt. I literally cried*** when that Meghan Trainor song was released because it was so catchy that I wanted to sing along, but in order to do so I had to call out "Skinny bitches"**** and lyrically agree that "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.♫" Which leads me to publicly present a challenge to today's pop stars. It's great to celebrate all body types! But, please realize that you can celebrate yours without shaming others in return. Hear that, Meghan? Nicki? Other girls whose names I forgot because I'm not entirely up to date on pop music?

• Lost My Filter: My filter has slowly been slipping away from me since my twenties. The decline has only increased in rapidity at 40. I probably cuss more than I should. I definitely give more unsolicited advice than I should. I fast-tracked from age 39 to 80 in my comfort level of thinking I'm old enough to not have to censor myself. Which is not necessarily a good thing, I do realize. On the upside, it's caused me take better care of my self-worth. If somebody wrongs me, I suddenly have no problem calling them out on it. Which is something I could have never dreamed of doing half-a-lifetime ago. Has it made me popular? Of course not! But, it's sharpened my true friendships and pinched off the ones that were sapping my reserves. Forty had no time for drama. And, forty-one's schedule is looking pretty booked as well. 

• Lost My Grandma: Forty was a terrible year of loss for my family. Both sides lost their last matriarchs. Not just that, but personally my biggest cheerleaders as well. Through all the sadness, I had the privilege of sitting with my Grandma in hospice during her last weeks on this earth. I received from her the best compliments of my entire lifetime and advice that I will cherish forever and ever. Though, it was exhausting, I still miss her every day and have never fully finished grieving over that loss. As my birthday draws near, I will miss that yearly card from her where she would underline in ink pen every word in the lame Hallmark poem that reminded her of me. And, I will forever regret every year that I was too lazy to call and thank her for thinking of me.

• Lost My Way: This year, I decided to be good. Again. Like, daily. Constantly renewing that pledge. Every morning, asking God for a clean slate and yet another do-over. I'm learning to not only speak more kindly, act more kindly and (most importantly) react more kindly. (Powder Keg Mecham, at your service!) I'm really focusing on thinking more kindly, so there are no judgmental or unfriendly comments rooted anywhere to have any chance of slipping out. This used to come so naturally for me, which means my heart must have slipped into an ungrateful place somewhere along the way. I have decades-old walls I'm breaking down. Bear with me! They were there for good reason, but I've grown too old and tired to keep holding them up. I've heard unkind things about myself this year. I don't want to produce that same kind of hurt in others. If I love you, I'll show it. If I give you a compliment, I really mean it. There's no sugar-coating. I'm too lazy to waste my breath like that. 

• Gave in to the Stereotype and Became a Fur Mama: Forty and single equals cat mama... Der! I absolutely adore this girl. And, she seems to tolerate me in exchange. (Although, she's currently glaring at me for having the light on this late at night and impeding upon her 22nd hour of sleep for the day.) Is it cheesy to say she completes me? No, just creepy? Well, thanks for keepin' it real. 

So, last year's post... What did I know? I was just a young 39.99 year-old when I wrote it. Little did I know 40 was bringing with it the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. If this trend keeps up, 41 may possibly leave me with whiplash!*****

But, seeing that I won't see another milestone for nine years is quite a relief. What's on my "50" bucket list, you ask? Let's just start with "Not Dying" and take it from there.******

No pressure this decade.

*Okay, maybe slight exaggeration on my part. They're still pretty cute for their age. Supported or not. And, healthy, most importantly!

**ie. Flat as a board.

***Disclaimer: Hormone surges may also be partly at fault for tears.

****Don't argue that the following, "...Just playin' , I know you think you're fat.♫" lyric makes up for this. No, we don't think we're fat. We're now just doubting our desirability thanks to your insensitive lyrics. Big or small, booties are soft to the touch... and that's what really matters. Trust me, I'm older and wiser. There's no need to cut others down to build yourself up. Lecture over!

*****Whiplash. Best movie of my fortieth year. Go see it!

******And, less footnotes. :)

Life + Cat

So, I may have jumped the gun on something. 

Before I have finished unpacking... Before I've refinished all the furniture or have gotten things totally organized and settled... I went and invited this little furry turd to come live with me.

"Oh, furry turd?! Kim, you're so cruel!"

Yeah, yeah... she's cute in pictures, but let's run through her first night here.

• 11:00 pm: Lights out.
• 11:01 pm: Repetitive meowing from Cat.
• 11:02 pm-4:00 am: Horrendously repetitive meowing/squawking/live exorcism taking place out in the Florida room.
• 4:01 am: Human worries for the sleep of the entire neighborhood, slams both doorwalls shut and chastises, "Now NOBODY gets to enjoy the fresh air!!!"
• 5:00 am: Cat scales every piece of furniture in the living room.
• 6:30 am: Cat discovers alarm clock on nightstand. Human fears her stepping on the "alarm off" button and deactivating it. But, Human needn't worry about waking up, because Human hasn't fallen asleep yet.
• 8:30 am-5:30 pm: Human is excessively grumpy due to lack of sleep and manages to avoid most human contact for an entire work day. Forgets the word "brass" at one point and refers to it as "the one that's like gold, but uglier. I forget the word. I just said in two minutes ago, but can't think of it now. You know..."

In Cat's defense, Human may have provided cat nip right before bedtime...

Day Two went a little more smoothly. She didn't greet me when I got home and was hiding under the bed. She still hadn't eaten, but there were signs of piddle in the litter box.

Night Two was a total 180. She stayed out in her favorite spot (kitty condo in the FL room) for what sounded like (or I should say, "lack of sounded") the entire night.

By the time I got home on Day Three, she had made herself at home. Food, eaten. Water, drunken. Litter box, pooped in. We were in kitty business!

That's not to say it's a perfect arrangement. We've had alot of "Seriously?!", "What?" conversations.

Like when she...

Climbs things:

Hogs the couch:

Climbs more things:

Impedes with my morning process:

I cannot go to work looking like that!

Etc.:

Last minute addition, from ten minutes ago.

I've been reintroduced to cat allergies that have laid dormant for the past five petless years. I've added extra chores to the daily list. She's decided it's fun to refrain from retracting her claws when she walks, so she goes around the house sounding like steel velcro as she crosses the carpet... the bed... my brand new couch!!!

She kicks her litter all over the bathroom. Sticks her bumhole in my face as a sign of supposed affection. She gives looks of teenage indifference when I scold her. But, I've found my owns ways to even the scorecard:

I've had passing thoughts of, "What have I gotten myself into?", "Do I want to spend the next twelve years of my life itchy-eyed, snotty-nosed and incapable of breathing?", "Is she too old to be declawed? If so, can I have her feet amputated?", "Do I really want to be a mom?", "Would they take her back if I ask?"

But, as I was laying in bed this morning, in comes Cat. Steel velcro prancing across my new bedding. She mewed for breakfast and I tried to forcefully hug her to buy a few minutes. She pulled away, stuck that bumhole in my face, then proceeded to purr and rub her head all over me as I pretended to be sleeping. 

She climbed across my legs. Hugged her side against mine. Purred to almost pornographic degrees. Then took a lap across my nightstand and quietly lied down. She'd decided I could sleep. She would allow it.

She reminded me exactly of myself when I'm not the hugger, but the huggee.

And, I too, like to keep my own schedule. I too, would rather hide under the bed some days. I like to go where I want, when I want. I like to act like I own the joint wherever I go, 'cause it makes me feel comfortable. I too, invoke "Seriously?!" in others, and reply with my own "What"s.

She's independent. Sassy. Loves fiercely once she decides your worthy of her love. Is affectionate on her own terms. Loves to sleep. Is thoughtful when it counts. And, is silly as can be. Wait a second... this cat is ME. I can't get rid of me!

In other words, she's a keeper. Seriously.

That Anaconda Don't Want None

Did you miss the Discovery Channel's Eaten Alive special? 

The one where idiot "scientist", Paul Rosolie, volunteers to be "eaten alive" by the largest anaconda on earth, all in the name of conservation and research? 

Count your blessings! I sat through the two hour ordeal just for you! 

About an hour and forty-five minutes of the program were spend traipsing through the "unexplored" regions of the floating forest along the Amazon River, while Rosolie and his crew melodramatically tried to catch a snake. All the while both daredevil and his team of scientists vowing their commitment to give their lives for this project, if need somehow be.

Once they finally found a snake they thought large enough to swallow Rosolie's big head, ego and all... the remaining fifteen minutes of the show were spent trying to get the poor thing to want to stomach the unsavory meal. 

Rosolie was suited in some sort of chainmail and Teflon getup, complete with safety scuba mask.

The "eating" portion of the program consisted of the anaconda tenderly sucking on the front of Paul's helmet and then wisely deciding it didn't like the taste of bull$h!t anymore than the rest of us do. (Trust me. You got kissed harder on prom night than what this guy experienced during his ordeal.)

The biggest joke of the special was that the "research" they were performing was to measure the psi pressure that a snake of this size would use to squash his victim. (Because, this has never been measured on a snake quite this size before! He repeatedly assures us!)

A psi sensor patch was adhered to the back of his safety suit somewhere between his shoulder blades. Hilariously, the snake squeezed him every which way but on the patch.

Even more hilariously, the man who spend 1 hr 45 min swearing to us that he would die for the experiment, tapped out once he felt his arm start to bough. 

Yes, he'd give his life for science. Just not an arm.

My unscientific brain tells me they could have slapped the patch on a wild boar, or something that the snake would have actually wanted to eat, to get their psi reading; thus saving themselves the cost of one super scuba suit, a TV production crew, and two hours of my precious time.

The most exciting portion of the show was documentary footage of an anaconda ralphing up a deer. Which you can also find plenty of footage of on YouTube.

You're welcome!

Monster In My Attic

There's a monster living in my bedroom ceiling.

There.  I said it.  Now you know.

It's a nighttime monster that only makes its presence known when the call to slumber has arisen.  Then sounds its internal alarm to haunt and terrorize.  It scratches, claws and nibbles above as I wait for it to gnaw its way through the drywall barrier and drop onto my sleepless self.

I'm not afraid of monsters.  In fact, they're something to adore in daylight.  I see the gentleness in their beady eyes and playfulness in their twitching whiskers.  I think their tiny feet are precious as they pad along through daylit life and their tails like eager little whips beneath the sun.

But come moonlight, the monster has broken the cardinal law of trespassing, for which no twitching whisker can find pardon.

My monster has moved its way further from the corner of the room and closer to the discomfort zone. Directly above my bed.

Scrape, scrape. Chew, chew. My fists pounding above no longer intimidate. The monster is now brazen and impertinent, claiming squatter's rights in an unabandoned home.

I secretly wonder why the circle of life doesn't claim the monster's life by day. There are larger monsters looming both above and below who would find such a twitching monster a delightful treat.

But, everyday my brave monster outwits. Refusing a life as prey and returning ever again.  To gnaw, louder and Louder and LOUDER than ever. A quarter-inch of drywall closer than before.

The gauntlet's been cast and the intrusion no longer stood for. Tonight, he'll find monster traps. Lined and loaded with cunning cheese.

Ever so sorry, Beady Eyes.  You should have responded more politely to the beckon of my fist. This night you will find that participating in the food chain as prey may have been a more noble way to go.  

Birds of Fury: A True Underdog Story

One of the beauties of living in Michigan is sharing the land with the majestic Red-tailed and Cooper's hawks.  You don't have to reside near the forest or farmlands to find them either.  There's enough chipmunks, mice, toy poodles and rats in the suburbs to keep the hawks soaring our skies just as frequently.

The oddest place I have regular hawk sitings, though, is at my office's parking lot.  My workplace is located in the most uber of suburban locations.  A setting filled with nothing more than office complexes, restaurants, big box stores and asphalt.  What they hunt there is beyond me.  Egg McMuffin wrappers?  Pen caps?  Stray staples?

Still, as I eat lunch in my car every weekday, above me they soar.  If I leave my sun roof open, I can even get one to start circling me! I don't know if it's my PB on wheat they're interested in or the fleshy allure of my German nose, but it should go without saying that I don't leave my sunroof open much anymore.  (Besides, I'd hate to imagine the disappointment of the predator upon realizing that there's more cartilage than meat up in there.) 



Mmmm... meaty.  My nose, in car, at lunch.

Anyhoo, the hawks have become just lovely but ordinary parts of the backdrop at this point in my life.  Until I was pulling out of the parking lot last week and before me stretched a brand new scene.

Picture it:  A lone hawk glides across the sky, tipping a wing to take his graceful turn around a giant cross.  (Yes, there's a giant, million-foot tall cross jutting out of the ground at the church across the way. Structured out of, what looks like, some strange mix of steel and PVC piping.) 

Something seemed to be interrupting his peaceful flight, though.  He'd soar and then scoot.  Soar and then double-scoot.  Soar, then jerk suddenly from one side to the other.  It's rare to even see a hawk flap a wing, so I wondered what could be wrong?  Was he having a mid-air seizure?  A bad case of the hiccups?

Then I noticed two other objects.  Littler in size and fluttering busily around him, somehow managing to disrupt the mighty bird's flight.

I was waiting in line to make a left turn (a process that usually takes at least five minutes to perform in rush hour traffic.)  So, as I idled, I felt safe enough to take my eyes of the road and squint more closely into the sky.

The smaller objects were flying clumsily, at a rate of a hundred flaps to the hawk's one. The sloppy flight pattern made me think they were bats at first, but then I saw the first bite. 

Yes, I could see it now, they had beaks!  These were birds.  Larger than sparrows, smaller than breadboxes.  Their flight, more strenuous in a higher altitude than the norm and their bodies slightly shaky from adrenaline... but these were birds. Chasing their predator.  IT WAS AWESOME!

Like I said, I was driving at the time and could hardly pull out my cell phone to document the fight while trying to simultaneously merge with traffic.  But, if my memory is as photographic as I'd like to give it credit for, the scene played out exactly like this:

(The combat helmets might be a fuzzy misremembering, but I'm pretty sure the tiny aviators were real.)

Every fifty flaps or so, one of the pair would catch up to get it a good peck or nip, as if to say "Ain't no birdie got time for that!" and then fall back again behind the mightier bird's speed and power.  They never gave up though. Catch up, bite. Fall behind, flap like mad. Repeat.  Little dive bombers, ticked off and unafraid.  (And, don't forget, the whole while circling the cross of the Lord our Savior... which I absent-mindedly forgot to include in my illustration.)  A cinematographer's dream, I'm sure!  An underdog action scene in the realest sense.

I finally had to turn left and pull away because the traffic behind me was beginning to think I was heavily sedated, forgetting to inch my way forward and pry my way into rush hour.  Face glued skyward with mouth most likely agape.  But, the little guys weren't giving up when I pulled away, which left me feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

I later described what I saw to my mom, who said she had seen the exact same scene play out in a totally different neighborhood earlier this summer.  This led me to Google "small birds attacking hawks" and I found out that this sight isn't so uncommon after all.

I found this;

(Images via onejackdawbirding.blogspot.com)

And this:

And many more images that were either copyright-protected or I was too lazy to download.

You gotta love that spunk, though!  I gather these hawks have long been terrorizing the small bird community and the tiny and brave created lynch mobs as retribution for their fallen friends, family and feathered young.

The top of the Great Lake State's food chain has always consisted of coyotes, bears, humans and birds of prey.  But, it somehow levels things out to learn that the bottom fraction of the chain are scrappy little links, that are taking none of this lying down!

My Favorite Places: Kensington Metro Park

 

There's nothing like a good park system in any community.  Fortunately, for those living accessible to Oakland County, MI we have a fabulous one!

Part of the Huron-Clinton Metroparks System, Kensington Metropark is located in the city of Milford, right off of I-96.

The park boast two beaches, over 20 miles of trails to hike, bike or blade; boating, fishing, a petting farm, nature center, golfing, disc golf, a water park and hayrides at the farm.  The park also hosts year-round fun with its winter sport activities available in the form of sledding, ice-skating, ice-fishing and cross-country skiing.

$25 for an annual vehicle pass makes year-round fun easily affordable. (Day passes also available for $5 per carload.)  The Metro-Park system is not included in the state park recreation pass on your vehicle's license plate, so be prepared to pay admission at the gate.  Additional fees are also required for boats and launch fees. Click here for all admission pricing information.

Here are a few of our favorite ways to spend a day here:

Boat rentals: There's a wide variety of options to choose from, ranging from paddle boats to canoes to rowboats to kayaks at very reasonable rates per hour. Click here for pricing information. Boaters are free to explore the lakes as well as any of the small islands scattered within them. My nephews love paddling to an island to collect shells, rocks and hatched turtle eggs. Just don't forget to bring cash! Boat rentals are cash only with a $20 deposit due per vessel. (Valid driver's license also required.)

Not in the mood to row?  The lake provides other fun too.

Take a relaxing pontoon ride around Kent Lake on the Island Queen. Allow 45-60 minutes per tour. For pricing information, click here.

Practice skipping rocks in the sun or shade on any of the several miles of bordering trails.  The trails provide several spots to sit, rest and take in some nature and boat-watching.

Take a swim...

...or a slide... 

...or a spray!  

Kensington has two beaches, Maple Beach and Martindale Beach. Note: Maple Beach is only open for the 4th of July holiday in 2013, but Martindale Beach and its Splash 'n' Blast zone are open summer-long. Beach access is free once you've entered the park; however, Splash 'n' Blast has an additional entrance fee of $5/adult and $4 for children and seniors.  Also note: Neither beach has lifeguards on duty at any time. You are responsible for your own children, so don't fall asleep in the sand without a second guardian close by (and conscious!)

Lake frozen over?  During safe conditions, feel free to skate (with or without blades!), start a pick-up hockey game or ice-fish.  Pay close attention to park signage to identify safe conditions.  And, heaven forbid, if needed there are several ice rescue stations within the shores of the park's lake system.  Take note of the nearest one before venturing out on any frozen water.

The park is home to several families of gorgeous sandhill cranes.

The Nature Center: The park's nature center has about 7 miles of its own hiking trails, winding through some of the park's most beautiful woodlands, wetlands and meadows.  The nature center  building itself is a fun stop for children of all ages. They'll love seeing the live turtle, snake and bee displays.  (Note: This is also good stop for clean restrooms!)  The nature center's trail offer what may be my favorite park feature. The wild songbirds who are more than willing to eat a snack right out of your hand!  Hand-feeding is allowed by the park (though note, only the small songbirds that land in your hand may be fed.) Bringing your own supply of seeds and nuts is up to you. Feed is not supplied by the park.

The birds are especially grateful to visitors' treats during the cold winter months.

The Petting Farm: To avoid having the backside of your seat kicked for the entire drive home, be sure to stop by the petting farm before leaving the park for the day.  Once a child lays eyes on any of the Farm Center signs and has learned of its existence, you will not be forgiven if you miss stopping in for a few minutes, at the very least.  The farm is located near the Milford Road park entrance and is home to several sheep, goats, cows, hogs, horses, ducks, geese and turkeys.  The baby barn is houses a constant rotation of the farm's newborns.  There is also a snack shop, open only during the peak season, providing your best chance to grab an ice cream, pop, hot dog, pizza slice, nacho or other such treat within the park.  The farm also provides horse and tractor-pulled hayrides throughout the better part of the year for additional cost.

There's plenty more to do and see at Kensington Metropark.  For a full list of park details, including  shelter and classroom rentals, visit the park's official website.  Michigan has alot of nature to love, and Kensington's a great introduction to anyone living in the metro area.  Hope to see you there!

Spider Soldier

I have strict rules when it comes to killing creepy crawling things.  If you're outside, you're in their home and you leave them be unless they're biting you.  Once they creep inside, however, it's your turf and you can swat at will without guilt.  (These rules are especially verbal and repeated any time I have charge of little boys with squishing curiosities.)

 

There is one place, though, also considered my turf that the arachnid kind have not learned to keep clear of.  My car! 

 

There's nothing creepier than driving along at peace when suddenly eight squirmy legs start wiggling their way down the inside of the windshield, unannounced and quite repulsively!  I've been in situations of this happening where I'm literally amazed I didn't take my own life (not to mention, the life of those in oncoming traffic) with my panicked fear-veering!

 

It's just plain dangerous.  If you come in my car and compromise my safety with your grotesqueness, prepare to be squashed.

 

That is, until this past Friday.

 

I was eating in my car on my lunch break while quietly reading.  It was a pleasantly mild day with a fair breeze and I was happy to be escaping my cubicle for an hour.  Then it happened.  On the driver's side of my dash, eight black and white striped legs crept out of the defrosting vents near the windshield totally harshing my mellow.

 

I hesitantly grabbed a tissue out of the box in the passenger seat and mentally prepared for the squishing sensation would come next.  (I don't enjoy any squish. It's just one of those necessities that would ensure my safety four hours later when I'd be pulling into rush hour traffic and when my nemesis would be sure to reemerge.)

 

I reached with my tissue and he backed back down into the vent.  Moments later he reappeared and I lunged even quicker but to no avail.  We played this little song and dance a few more times and he started hiding out a little longer each time between rounds.

 

I really didn't want to kill him; to feel that smush, to have a nasty tissue with no place nearby to discard.  I didn't want to half-squish him, leave that tissue in the car out of fear of littering, come back four hours later and find an empty tissue with only two legs left behind and live in fear of that mystery.  And, quite frankly, I was beginning to admire his moxie.

 

This was a jumping spider, a breed common to our area.  No bigger than a dime, but with thick strong bendy legs that are perfectly engineered for, yes, jumping!  I started paying less attention to the article I'd been reading and more attention to the daymare fantasies of where and when he'd be springing to and from next, inducing the heart attack I was sure to have at some point that day.

 

But, he never did jump.  He just patiently kept marching in and out of that air vent.  Sometimes I'd just wave the tissue in a silly "hello" and that would be enough to send him back into retreat.  It was a Vanity Fair article I'd been reading.  An Obama profile with a side-by-side depiction of a U.S. Air Force navigator whose plane had been downed, leaving him stranded in the Libyan desert during Gaddafi's last days of terror.  I began to see this spider in a less-creepy light.  More like a soldier.

 

Sometimes when he'd emerge from the vent, I could see him spin like the turret of a tank.  Looking east and west for any signs of escape but then spying me, still there, waving my tissue of death and he'd retreat once again. 

 

I didn't want to be the enemy.  Yes, he'd invaded my territory.  But, I suddenly found myself wanting to be the innocent citizen who helped him find his escape out of the war zone. 

 

So, I spent the rest of the hour patiently waiting on him to reappear and then guiding him little by little with an orange bookmark I had found (the sight of anything white or tissue-y at this point had him crying "uncle")  I opened the two front windows, despite the chill of the strengthening winds outside.  These were the goal lines.  (I did not, however, open the sunroof, still scared of any eight-legged jumping near my face or hair.) 

 

I was eventually able to guide him to the driver's side door.  He missed the window completely, but I was able to swing the door open quickly enough for him to fall down out of the inside of the car and somewhere into the door joints.  This would have to do for now.  The hour was over and I was due back inside.  Hopefully he had more options for escape in his current foxhole than he had in that vent-to-nowhere.

 

Sure enough, as five o'clock rolled around, I opened up the car to find him still clinging to the armpit of door.  I brush him softly with my umbrella and saw him safely fall to the blacktop below. 

 

Finally! The captive soldier has found freedom! 

 

I backed out of my parking space, placing my sunglasses on quite smugly, when I was overwhelmed by the realization that there was an 85% chance our brave soldier was just squashed beneath my tire.

 

At least he went quickly!  With no dirty tissue to leave any further dilemma. 

 

Another mile down the road I squealed as a brown spider now scrambled across the top of my sunroof at a stop light.  This one still outside for now.  Still on his turf.  Whether he blew off a mile further down the road or if he found his way quickly inside at my next stop remains unknown.  He could have gotten where he was going or be seeking revenge for a fallen brother.

 

As of today, the spider treaty remains unsigned.