This is the birthday cake that, with the help of Bumblebee, I made for my friend Angie yesterday. I put two dorky little bluebirds on top because Angie is a sweet and beautiful soul who deserves all the happiness in the world. The cake was a vanilla butter cake, filled with Meyer lemon curd and topped with a ton of cream cheese frosting. It was supposed to be my wedding cake.
Today, instead of saying “I do” on the banks of the Rogue River, I was helping Mark load our cars with his sparse belongings and taking them to his own little apartment.
Tonight, instead of sitting in a Japanese soaking tub and drinking champagne with my new husband, I will be watching Molly Ringwald movies and eating pizza with my dear old friend. It’s not a bad alternative, really.
To talk about what happened would be disrespectful to Mark and to our relationship, and so I won’t. I am clinging to the cliche’, “It will all be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” No matter the outcome.
For right now, I’m not thinking about there being no one to make coffee for in the morning anymore. I’m not thinking about the lack of warm feet to rub my very cold ones against. And I’m not thinking about the fact that there will be no one here to make me the most fantastic eggs, which seemed to cure all ailments, at any time of the day or night. I’ll think about all of those things, plus a million or so more, later.
Right now I’m thinking about spiders. My bedroom is a loft that’s really more like a treehouse. It’s surrounded by branches, it’s made from raw wood, and there are little holes to the outside all over. It’s easy for unwanted creatures to find their way in and burrow themselves in a deep crack. Perfect for those little bastards, the fat black spiders.
I was raised by organic gardeners. I realize that spiders help kill the bad bugs and are beneficial in many ways. Outside. When they’ve found their way into other homes in the past, I’ve always carefully grabbed them with a rag or a jar and placed them outside. The fat black spiders are different. They are not spinning webs and killing bugs like normal, healthy spiders. No. They lie in wait in their warm little cracks until I’m deep in sleep. Then those depraved beings come out. Crawl over my bed. Feast on my flesh. This is why they’re fat. They’re filled with my blood.
I wake up with patterns of bumps on my legs that itch for days. I hate the fat black spiders, and I really truly believe that they deserve to die. And yet, I have a hard time doing the deed. So this has been Mark’s job, and now he won’t be around to do it.
The wicked fat black spiders will go wild. They’ll invite all their friends and families in. They’ll dance and feast and sing their satanic fat black spider songs all night long.
I have to stop them before it’s too late, and I have to go to sleep tonight in their evil lair, so I must sign off now.
Until next time,
Kristabel, lonely heart and novice spider killing ninja