--The day I stood up to the First Lady of Tonga after she cussed me out. I told her to be nice and calm down.
--When I survived my horrendous bout of food poisoning. I didn't even cry the whole 7 hours I rid my body of corned beef and sketchy raw fish (probably for the best.) I did cry, however, when I talked to my mom the next day. There's something about a mom's voice when you're sick and far, far away. It totally doesn't take away from my bad-arse-ness, since I slowly walked to the nearest store (which was closed) to get my own Sprite. I looked deranged.
--The day of the Molokau Massacre. See blogpost for that one.
--Any time I killed cockroaches...with books, flip flops,and even my bare fist.
--When I killed Socrates. Haha. Lie. Even in his final fleeting moments, I still couldn't get within 5 feet of this bleeding, crawling rat. Total wimp day.
And that's where I am. I feel wimpy again. Not in a "ew gross!" girly way, but I am paranoid as hell. I've had nightmares about rats and molokaus, and I've woken up many times thinking a rat was crawling in the walls when, in fact, it was a limb scratching at my window. And once, it was hail.
I got out of the shower the other night, wrapped up tight in my towel since the basement is often an ice box, and I nearly bared myself to the world when a dried leaf suddenly morphed into a scary, 3-inch cockroach. I felt ridiculous.
Then yesterday, as I was playing the uke, I stifled a screech as a black mass appeared on my ceiling. It was a plastic hook that's been there forever.
I'm a mess. This, of course, is a very appealing characteristic to my sister and brother-in-law. Once, as Kelly had spilled the gooey blue laundry detergent in the basement floor, she said, "Jaaaaamie...I need help. Look at this!"
"Oh gah," I said, "It's a rat, isn't it?"
"WHat? No! Of course not. Just look." I slowly walked downstairs, waiting for Kelly to show me whatever the problem was. Before I saw the blueness spreading across the concrete, she said, "Watch out! Mouse!"
I screamed and grabbed her arm like a little girl.
Ronnie, her husband, has taken it upon himself to scare me at random intervals during the day--usually behind doors or at the most convenient moments, when I'm in Jamie-Land and unaware of the world. It's not really that necessary, though, since I've also sent myself into convulsions thinking a gecko was down my shirt (again) when, in fact, it was a tag. Really, Jamie.
I clean toilets at work, pick tiny bits of glass from my head, face, and chest due to working in the kiln room, and am confident in killing most insects.
Yet I'm a wimpy ninny haunted by rodents and centipedes on crack that have already perished at the mercy of my hand, foot, or, of course, rat poisoning.
I need to man up before I go adventuring again.
