Grenadian Anecdotes

So our awesome friend, Sara Weir had an idea to have everyone part of the I'm-surviving-Grenada club write about something bad that's happened to us with one twist: make it funny. I thought to myself: wow, how much fun to take the things that drive us nuts and make it humorous for ourselves and for others. Sometimes we need a change of perspective to find joy in the things that happen to us--kinda like how it's funny or cute when someone else's kid does something crazy or naughty but when it's ours it makes steam come out our ears. Anyway, only a couple of people have written theirs, but I thought it'd be fun to post them on my blog. So here's mine. While I could have written about all the unwanted parental adivce from the locals who consider not beating your child spoiling them or the island-style (on serious steroids) driving, I chose a topic less constantly annoying but more acutely horrifying.

Cailin-1; Monsters-0

Okay, did you know that monsters are real? We assure our kids every night that the shadows hide nothing more sinister than the dust bunnies we can’t seem to contain. But two days ago I discovered that we are all liars and fearsome, evil beasts do exist.


And they live in my laundry room.

The morning started out pretty normal, which is to say way too early. I dragged my eyes open and fidgeted while trying to get comfortable enough to drift back to sleep. But something kept nagging at me. Aw crap, I left the load of whites in the washer last night. I had gone to check on it after my bath and it wasn’t quite done. Then I got caught up doing incredibly vital and urgent something-or-others on the web and totally forgot to recheck it. Now it had sat wet and dank overnight. Worse, the stupid electrical switch had been on all night. That’s gonna cost a bundle. So, I, overflowing with joy and goodwill, rolled off the bed and slouched my way out into the cool—oh, wait, this is Grenada so make that muggy—pre-dawn and up the stairs to the laundry room. After pulling out a towel for inspection, I happily concluded that the bleach had staved off mold and decided to hang them up instead of rewashing them. I yanked out the offending towels to drape over my shoulder, muttering to myself about silly addictive websites and why or why can’t we have a dryer. Next step, hanging up the garments in proper order. I know I’m oddly anal about the weirdest things but I have to put up the garments in a certain way. So I rummaged through the washer looking for Iz’s tops first and began clipping them to the line briskly and efficiently. I fastened one sleeve up and reached for the other side when OH MY—insert appropriate mental expletive here—a grotesque, demonic creature slithers up the shirt heading straight for the hand clutching the sleeve.

Move over kraken. Hit the road Cerberus. ‘Cause monsters of the deep and giant, three-headed dogs guarding the underworld have nothing on this fiend.

With black-shelled spine outlined in poison red and hundreds upon thousands of talon-like legs, I hardly think centipede accurately sums up the terror and revulsion these things inspire. Certainly the scientific name is equally uninspiring: scolopendromorpha, are you kidding. Maybe deathstrider. Or creepy-crawly-harbinger-of-the-apocalypse. I dunno, something like that. Anyway, this monster is at least 8 inches of slithery yuckiness. I swear I could hear the tiny legs clicking as it sped toward my hand.

I, brave warrior that I am, don’t even shriek or shout for Iz to rescue me. I kind of gulp compulsively and fling the shirt on the table. I pause for maybe 3 seconds—or about 100 heartbeats—and watch to see where it went, weight on the balls of my feet, ready to spring into action. Meaning rush down the stairs to the relative safety of the house. But I breathe a sigh of temporary relief when the thing scurries into a dark corner. Gingerly, I reach out to shake the shirt to look for any companions before continuing to hang up the clothes. Each time I reach into the washer I cringe, eyes darting everywhere looking for signs of another intruder. Though none appears, it still takes me twice as long to finish my task. After the last one is hung neatly in line, I finally uncurl my toes (why I think that will protect me, who knows) and head out, feeling like the bravest soul around.

Now I can strut my stuff, chest puffed out because I am like a triumphant knight returning from battle. Except instead of slaying a dragon, I didn’t run away screaming from a bug.