I’m not talking about normal stuff like opening jars, changing a flat tire or reading maps.  I’m talking about my superhuman ability to deal with spiders and other insects without fear of attack, injury or death.

“Steve, STEEEEEVE!!!  Come here.  Quick!  See that there… it’s a spider.  GET it!!!”

Seriously.  She’s not just squeamish about the little critters, or just gets the heebie-jeebies when one touches her.    When a spider is anywhere near, my sweetheart’s reaction is one of genuine fear.  She jumps up from where she is, stops what she’s doing, and can focus on nothing else until the beast has been broken and his lifeless corpse is flushed out to sea.

But why would she be soooo afraid, but have no issues whatsoever sending me into the monster’s den armed with nothing but a half sheet of paper towel?  It’s not that she doesn’t love me.  And it’s not that she cares so much for her own safety that she is willing to put mine at risk.  For some reason, she believes… truly believes that the 6 or 8 legged ogre that has set up shop in the corner of the gazebo can bring harm to her, but not me.

So, when the occasional earwig, beetle, or God forbid, bumble bee invades our living space, I swoop in, cool and confident, “Stand back for your own safety, Ma’am.  I’ll take care of this.”

I bought two coffees today and guess what? The opening in the lids were lined up perfectly with the seam in the cup! Arrgh!!!

UPDATE: I’ve been told that the reason they do this is to line up the weakest part of the lid with the strongest part of the cup. That makes it least likely to collapse and potentially burn someone. Hmmmm.

I must have gone there for my lunch. It was 1:25 pm and I bought 3 diet Pepsi and a chicken salad with ranch dressing. $9.96. I gave the cashier, S. Lane, 10 bucks and got 4 cents change. My healthy lifestyle (ahem) must be working because I still fit into a pair of jeans I haven’t worn in almost four years.

The supermarket is gone now, but its memory lives on in my denim clad, back pocket time capsule.

By they way, I was blogging back then. Here’s a post I put up three days before that chicken salad was doomed to dissolve in my digestive tract. The post is kind of cryptic, but anyone who knows anything about my working conditions back then is fully aware of the source of my near psychopathic meltdown.

You. It’s a simple word that becomes a little awkward for some of us when we want to use it in the plural. Y’all, ye, you lot, yous, you guys, yis… the list goes on. Most Newfoundlanders use the word “ye” to indicate the plural “you”, and I’ve noticed that Cape Bretoners often use “yez”, kind of a variation of “youse”.

What do y’all say for “y’all”?