- I've had to squash four tiny spiders in my house in the past week. On one hand, ew; I hate spiders (bugs of all kinds, really). On the other hand, I am a little bit relieved. For months and months I saw not a single insect within my home. Also, in the nearly four years that I've lived there, I've yet to see even one mouse (knocking on wood furiously as I type that). Instead of taking this good fortune in stride, however, and entertaining the idea that my drafty old house might be more effectively sealed than I suspected, my kitchen more clean and food particle-free than I thought, I decided that there must be some silent toxin in my house that has exterminated all the bugs and is slowly killing me as well. No bugs surely must be a dire warning sign, a canary-in-the-mine phenomenon, if you will.
- Even though there are no bugs in my house, there's no shortage of them outside my house, unfortunately. The ants determined to take over my yard came back again this spring, and I remain convinced that the thousands that have made their way to the surface are just a fraction of the massive ant underworld surely living beneath my feet. I keep laying bait and killing colonies (I learned this last year--you need to bait them, not spray them), but they keep popping up again elsewhere, in equally large numbers each time. I really am frightened to resume my landscaping projects this summer, as I'm worried that when I dig down to unroot the unwanted shrubs in front of my house, I'll finally find the wriggling solid mass of ants I've suspected has been living and growing there all along. *Shudder*
- Lots of people probably have the occasional stubborn headache that they worry is a brain tumor. How many of them, however, become so scared it might be a stroke that they actually stare into the mirror trying to decide if one side of their face seems to be falling? Not many, I suspect. That one really might be just me. It was just the one time, but still. (Honestly, Stefanie...)
- Because hypochondria is apparently a hobby for me, I have also decided that my expanding abdomen isn't due just to my inability to say no to wine, cheese, and cake nor to the slowing metabolism that comes with age, but that instead I am one of those people with a volleyball-sized tumor growing in her stomach who has no idea there is anything wrong. (Mind you, I cannot actually imagine going to a doctor to say, "Um, I think I might have a stomach tumor," but the thought is there nonetheless.)
- There is a bar not too far from my house that I refuse to go to with dates, because I am convinced there is a curse on the place. I will go there with friends (not that my friends and I actually ever go there); it is just women on dates whom the curse seems to affect. I won't bother explaining all the very real evidence giving credence to this theory (I have at least four different stories that serve as proof); I will say just that I have given this theory so much thought that I've actually even decided upon the source of the date-jinxing curse. There's an enormous wooden burlesque dancer bolted to the wall above the bar, and I think she holds the spirit of a jilted lover who has decided to make all women who pass under her gaze suffer unhappiness in love as well. I have actually shared this theory with three different men (after they suggested going to this bar), and oddly, all of them still went out with me after that blatant admission of "Hello, I'm crazy." Note that I am not still dating any of them, however. Perhaps they were just being polite and making a slow, silent retreat.
So tell me. Am I the only one with this brand of lunacy brewing in my brain? Surely you've all got your own set of totally real-to-you theories the rest of the world just doesn't understand... Spill them and make me feel better, OK? Thanks.