My mortal enemy has been vanquished. That’s right cruel viper; I have conquered you. I did it! I conquered my fear of snakes. Or maybe I can say, I’m not afraid of this particular corn snake. Her name is Lilu, like the character in The Fifth Element. She doesn’t have teeth.
My Caramel Corn Colored Nemesis
I have been terrified of snakes since I was a child, but not anymore. Snake aversion therapy worked. I’m feeling a bit smug right now. So I’m wondering what fear to conquer next. What are my biggest fears? Heights and being buried alive. I can’t imagine I’ll be buried alive anytime soon, soooooooo, heights it is. If I get over my fear of heights I’ll be a better skier. Getting over my fear of being buried alive isn’t going to make me better at anything.
I’ve been afraid of snakes my whole life. I remember as a young child seeing a garter snake slithering through the front yard of my stepmother’s grandmother’s house. My step-cousin swung a hoe down on it and chopped its head off. The poor snake writhed and twisted. I’ll never forget that image. I remember seeing other snakes as a child. Sometimes they’d be shimmying through the water next to our boat when I was on fishing trips with my grandparents. They never bothered me before. I don’t know when my fear of snake really took hold. Maybe it was watching my step-cousin kill one so brutally that planted the thought it my head that snakes are awful and dangerous.
BTW, that scene was repeated when I was 17 years old in college on a retreat with other students in the San Bernardino Mountains. Pretty, huh?
Pretty full of rattlesnakes, I should say. See the arrow on the mountain? I consider that a Native American warning.
One scaly intruder that appeared to be the size of a semi truck slithered it’s way to our rooms. To say it was big would be to say that the Taj Mahal is big. It was BIG, and it rattled. Someone from our group called the maintenance department. A guy pulled up in a pickup truck, pulled out a hoe (apparently the weapon of choice for snake-i-cide) and chopped its head off. He took the hoe and flipped the head in the bushes. He took the body and threw it in the back of his truck and drove away. Just like that. It wasn’t seeing the snake being killed that bothered me so much as the casual way that the man did it. Like it was the kind of mundane task that he did 10 times a day. Which meant that I was in 10 Times a Day Rattlesnake Country. That was a place I did NOT want to be. So I spent the rest of the retreat a bit jumpy and constantly looking underfoot.
I started snake therapy by just looking at pictures of snakes. Not pleasant. As I kid, I wouldn’t even pick up the S volume of our World Book Encyclopedias at home, for fear that I’d accidentally turn to the wrong page and be greeted with a bunch of color pictures of snakes. Funny, when was the last time I saw a set of encyclopedias? I guess Wikipedia must have been devastating to the World Book/Encyclopedia Britanica sales force.
I graduated from looking at pictures of snakes to looking at real life snakes. Then I made it to the final frontier. I can now pick up a snake, hold it and put it around my neck. BTW, when I put her around my neck she tries to go into my hair and down my shirt.
Excuse me snake, but I don't like you like that.
It feels amazing to conquer a fear. I feel like I’m powerful. I went from the kind of person who would run away from a snake to one who will let one coil itself around my wrist, slide up my arm, twist around my fingers. I haven’t just overcome a personal fear, I’ve overcome an instinctive one too.
We color coordinated our outfits. Animal prints are in. Snakes are very fashionable.
I totally want a snake bracelet.
TV Killer
I did it. I finally killed my TV…sort of. It died from neglect. I moved three months ago, and I never called Comcast to set up cable at my new place. I kept meaning to do it, but procrastination ruled my life. Instead, I got a subscription to Netflix. Love it. It’s weird to go through life without MSNBC. No more Keith Olbermann. No more Rachel Maddow. No more Chris Matthews. Then I stopped listening to NPR in the mornings. Now I’m living in a bubble. I have no idea what’s going on in the world, with dire consequences. I was the very last person on the planet to find out that MacKenzie Phillips had been screwing her father for 10 years. When I hear stories like that it makes me realize how thankful I am to have a normal, caring dad. And now I can forgive my dad for anything because he was never weird or creepy or deviant. Hey Dad, remember that time when I was four and you went out for cigarettes in the middle of the night and I woke up and you weren’t there and I freaked out and ran up and down the halls crying? Forgiven. Hey Dad, remember that time when I was five and you made my oatmeal and I complained that it tasted funny and you told me to eat it anyway and then later you realized that you’d put spoilt milk in it? Forgiven. Hey Dad, remember that time when I was four and I was sitting at the table with you and my sister Macy and I leaned back in the chair and accidentally tipped back and fell and hit my head and started crying and instead of getting up and helping me you and Macy sat there cracking up? Unforgivable! I’m still holding a grudge about that one.
Car Killer
I did it. I finally killed my car. Not sort of, for real. I wrecked my beloved Infiniti G20. Beloved because it lasted for so long. 220,000 miles! I was going to drive that car until the wheels fell off, but no. Instead, I rear ended another car on the 280. *sigh* It was so sad seeing my hood all crumpled up, headlight broken, radiator dented. I looked at its broken little body at the mechanic’s and thought, so this is what it feels like to be a murderer. I wonder if that car knew when I picked it off the lot that I would kill it one day. Kind of like how plants in a nursery start to shake when they see me reaching out for them.
Okay, so that's not actually a picture of my car, and my car wasn't that badly damaged, but this is what my soul felt like inside.
So now I’ve got to go get another car. I soooo loved not making car payments. I’m tempted to use my insurance money and just get another 1999 Infiniti. But there’s a spicier side of me. A side that wants something, hmm, faster. Zippier. Sadly, zippy comes at a cost. I wrecked my car more than three weeks ago and only yesterday did I make it to a dealership to test drive another car. I know I need to get another car, but I don’t want to haggle over a car with some guy in a cheap suit.
Mastery of the WASP-y Sports Continues…Archery!
My WASP-y sports pursuits have taken a turn for the lethal lately. Fencing, shooting. I seem to gravitate toward weaponry. And why not? There’s something incredibly satisfying about taking up arms. Makes me feel all caveman-y and primal. What will it be next? Jousting? Well, I don’t think it’s fair to say that I’ve mastered archery. I’ve only taken one lesson. As with fencing, I decided to turn to the internet for guidance. I typed “Archery San Francisco” into the search engine and voila! Cupid’s Gate at Golden Gate Park. The cost: $80. For my $80 I get two hours of instruction, a bow and a quiver of arrows.
The archery range is far out in the Avenues, close to the chilly Pacific Ocean, and it occurs to me as I’m standing in the park in November, shivering with my Ralph Lauren ski jacket on, that archery really should be a summer and/or indoor activity, because while it’s technically a sport, it’s not something that you can warm up and work up a sweat while doing it. Under Armor, my instructor informs me, is necessary to keep me warm.
First I get safety instructions. Don’t dry fire the bow, meaning don’t fire it without an arrow loaded. Why? Because it can damage the bow, I’m told. Don’t walk across other lanes where people are shooting. Well, that certainly seems wise. I don’t want my session to end with me looking like Saint Sebastian.
Is it just me or does he look like he’s enjoying being tied to a post and shot with arrows? Surely this must be a fluke. Let me investigate by looking at some more pictures.
And why's he wearing that tiny loin cloth?
And where are those other guy's pants? Last time I checked pulling out arrows was not a pants optional event.
Alright buddy. That's it. You're not fooling me. I'm on to you and your arrow penis. Put it back in your pants.
How did I never notice this before? Saint Sebastian was a total freak.
So what was I talking about? Oh, yeah, archery. So how does it work? I take a heavy metal bow, I load my arrow onto it and pull back the string. I line up the target, the tip of the arrow, my lips and eyes all in the same line of sight. I look through a sight on the left side of the bow and when everything is in line, I release.
So I shoot off about 100 arrows, and a few times I manage to hit the yellow center. How do I like it, asks my teacher. Hmmm, it’s okaaaaay, I answer hesitantly. He looks disappointed that I’m not showing more enthusiasm. Truthfully, I was bored and both my arms were sore from holding the heavy metal bow. He tells me that I’m pretty good for a beginner, but that with practice I can get to the point where it will be unusual for me to not hit the center. He takes a few videos of me shooting arrows to show me how to correct my form. I finish my two hour lesson, pay him his $80 and take off. The next morning I wake up and both my arms are hurt.
Over the last few days I’ve been thinking about archery. I’m surprised because I was initially so bored with it, but now it’s planted itself into my head and I want to try it again. I want to get to that magical point where it’s unusual for me not to hit my target. I think I might go back for a second lesson.
Here I am. Check out that form.
http://sharing.theflip.com/session/936a
Next and final WASP-y sport of 2009, SQUASH!
Squash, prepare to be mastered…

