Daisy

Day 241: Some days, you just need a goddamn daisy. Sorry if my bluntness offends you. I don't make a habit of voicing my political opinions outside a close circle of friends, but my stress level is so high currently that if I don't let some of it out, I'm going to explode. Every day, it seems like there is some new crisis, and it makes me wonder what's going on behind the scenes that we are being pulled away from seeing by the "shiny object" of a manufactured scenario. We are being manipulated with distractions, being sold the biggest "reality show" ever staged. We're being conned by a team of experts with a jackass as the figurehead, who himself is being conned by a larger machine (or so I believe). What's the end game here? And who is actually behind it? Not Don the Pawn. He hasn't got the brains. Meanwhile, everyone is calling dirty, ineffectual names on social media, feeling self-important as if they were actually doing something productive. I go to bed with a black cloud of despair hanging over my head. I don't sleep, wondering what kind of life I will have, wondering what kind of life I can give Merry if I find myself without an income. It is a deep, dark well I find myself staring into, and some days, the only ray of hope (invasive or not) is a goddamn daisy.

Daisy Defender

Day 255: I have a photographer friend to thank for identifying the Daisy Defender for me. It is a Crab Spider (Misumena vatia), and this specimen must surely be a female because it is so plump. Thank you kindly, I have no aspirations to becoming an arachnologist, although I have overcome my abject horror of spiders to the degree that now they only make me mildly uncomfortable when I encounter them in their own environment. That said, the door is the dividing line between Theirs and Mine, and the only exception I make to taking extreme measures is when I find a Daddy Longlegs. Those I will politely remove and put out of doors where all good spiders should stay.

My fear of spiders was instilled in me by my mother. We lived in the Yakima Valley when I was very young, and the words "Black Widow" were on everyone's lips in the farming community. My mother was an arachnophobe of the first water, and one morning when I went out to play in the sandbox just off our back step, she spotted a Black Widow in the corner. Her panicked reaction which included shrieking, violent physical movements and vividly colored swear-words as well as a firm yank on my small arm told me then and there that spiders were something far worse than the Kidnapper Who Lived By The Railroad Track (a device she used to keep me from wandering too far from home). She did not dispatch the Black Widow, so deep was her alarm; no, she called my father home from work to take care of the grisly deed. I was not allowed in the back yard for some weeks thereafter while he reasoned with her about the likelihood of seeing another Black Widow. It was not as if they were a creature commonly found in open areas.

Nevertheless, my dread of arachnids stayed with me until I was in my 20s, and then I sought to combat it with familiarization techniques. Rescuing Daddy Longlegs spiders was the first step. Even so, if a little black sideways-walker were to drop on me from the ceiling today, I would be likely to have a full-blown case of the heebie-jeebies. Walking into a faceful of newly hatched garden spiders in a veil slung from the top sill of my front door sends me straight to the shower and my skin crawls for hours afterwards, and unfortunately takes me by surprise almost annually. If the Daisy Defender hadn't been so busy concentrating on the small bug and had raised its arm toward the lens, I might well have gone ass-over-teakettle backwards as instinct took control over reason.