(And it’s long gone buddy, long gone buddy good bye…)
I’m so red-eyed tired right now I can’t even remember the lyrics of that song–and, like Aimee Mann is the reason I’m Amy Lane! But that’s another story. See, the thing is, the engine light on the Lane-family crap-mobile went on, and I had Mate check it out…
He said, “They’re going to have to keep it for another day. It seems like things are leaking.”
“Things? What things?”
“Well, the master cylinder and the solenoid and the fuel line and the back brake light case and the…”
“Relax, it’s all under warranty–but you’re going to have to pick me up from work.”
Excellent. Truly excellent. For those of you who know the area, this is going from Natomas to Folsom to Citrus Heights. For those of you to whom that means nothing, think two hours in the car to get home. But hey, it’s not like I didn’t have company…
I had Ladybug, who was swearing at me…and I had Cave Troll, who, now that we’re in the smaller car has taught the Ladybug some truly awesome stupid-mommy-tricks. His favorite is having a piece of trash and screeching “mmmmooooommmmm” until mommy’s hand shoots out like an automatic trash dispenser and taking the hamburger/trash/straw/dead-chocolate-milk-soldier and fingertipping it into the trash bag in the front. Good times were had by all–
And then I met Herman.
Herman was a cute little field spider. Now spiders don’t freak me out–unless they’re black with red key-holes on their asses, they are, for the most part, no bfd. Herman was like that…he’d already come out to visit on my way to work. He hung out on the top light, looking at me, trying to have a spider/human communication moment, as it were, and then he went away. We were good.
He did the same thing on the way to Folsom, and this time, we knew each other so my automatic “eek it’s a spider and even though I know better I still have to squash my initial “please goddess let it not be a black-fucking-widow” response” only lasts a moment, and really, once that’s done, Herman and I are good.
After I got Mate and he got into the drivers seat, Herman came out again. Mate almost crashed the car.
“Do you want me to do something about him?” I asked, non-plussed.
“Hell yes–I almost swerved the car into a post…do something.”
“I don’t have a napkin or anything… the only place he’s got is my yarn bag. I like Herman and all, but really…So.Not.Happening.”
“YOU NAMED HIM!!!”
“He’s Herman–we’re buds…”
“He’s a spider.”
“He’s company. Not as good as a cat–and I still don’t want him near my yarn, but hell, we’ve had a car trip together. Two in fact. What’re you going to do?”
A few moments later, while we were talking about that long held dream of when we can ditch the kinderbratten with the uberadolescents, his window flashes down and his hand darts and…
“Holy shit, was that Herman!!! You killed Herman, you bastard! We had a BOND!!!”
“Naw…I didn’t kill him. Really–I just pushed him on to a faster ride, that’s all.”
“Are you sure there’s no spider guts on your fingers.”
He waves them. “Really–no spider guts. If there had been, then we WOULD have crashed into a pole.”
And there you go…this is when you know you’re too tired for your own good and too weird for primetime TV. We got home alive, and Herman is visiting some other poor motorist. God speed little guy… I hope your next commute is shorter than your last.