June 12, 2012

What makes the Zombie Girl squirm...

The first year I lived in South Carolina, I went hiking with a friend.

Back in New Jersey, using bug spray while hiking was a suggestion, easily ignored.

That day I learned that, in South Carolina, bug spray use is a cardinal rule.

I found the first tick on my dog, a sweet little Jack Russell Terrier who couldn't understand why the sight of her suddenly made me run away, crying.

I found the second tick on my side, just below my sports bra. It was big, and full.

I found the third on my hip. This one was tiny and looked like a deer tick.

I screamed, I cried, I carried on like a baby. I lost any and all sense of reason until the ticks were OUT and DESTROYED. The next day I went to the doctor to make sure I wasn't going to die of Lyme's Disease (which I've already had) or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever (which is so extremely rare the doctor actually laughed at me).

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A few days ago Charles and I went to WalMart (don't judge - they are cheaper for things like laundry detergent).

We took the Jeep and rode with the windows down.

About a mile from our house, I saw it. Tiny, segmented body. Long, spindly legs. It crawled out from the dark recesses of my open window while we sat at a red light.

Oh, shit. Oh no. Charles, help! I managed to say as I threw off my seatbelt and crawled to the far end of my seat.  I tried to hop onto the center console, as far away from the spider as I could manage.

Charles thought someone was at the window, slashing my throat.

I was grateful it was less than two minutes before we reached the parking lot.  I threw open the door and escaped the spider's ruthless attack.

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Yesterday I went for a walk through my office parking with a good buddy of mine. He reached out and stopped me moments before I stepped on a dead, legless lizard. It was gross - starting to mummify in the hot sunshine, looking zombie-like with ants all over it.

I squealed and jumped backward, then leaned forward to get a better look.

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I can't talk about stitches or scabs without bile rising in my throat.

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I have frequent nightmares about vampires.

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I freak out if you touch my neck.

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Any time I am terrified of the small stuff, Charles teases me.  You're a zombie-writer, he'll say, laughing. Suck it up.

I try. I really do. But I don't always succeed.

So for now, let it be known: sad, but true, I am a wimp. Even Zombie Girl can get a little terrified sometimes.

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