This is not going to be a deep moving story. But it is an example of how I often use my own life to draw from in my fiction. The following tale will make it into a book.
My husband and I got married on Halloween. This year he gave me a beautiful ring, and knowing my penchant for long baths, a bath bomb. For those of you who don’t know what that is, picture a giant cellophane wrapped ball that fizzes on contact with water. This one was named Candy Corn. Nice and Halloween-y. Last night I gathered up all my bathing equipment and planned a nice evening.
Short intermission: Gary and I have not always lived in our cozy condo by the lake. We once resided on what could only be called a homestead; a gorgeous 1920's “fixer upper” house on a huge track of land. We both realized after ten or so years that while we liked the idea of a country estate, the practicalities of said living arrangement were not so great. At least, not without garden minions. And maybe Mike Holmes. Anyway, we downsized and moved, wanting to spend our free time on things like, say, writing.
We shared our country house with various uninvited critters: mice, termites, centipedes, flies, and spiders. Big spiders, like those huge ones you see in the garden and think wow, I’m glad it’s outside. Once when I was taking a bath I swirled the water around and lo, floating atop a mound of bubbles, was one of those spiders. It was dead, but still.
So back to the present; I threw in the bomb and watched it fizz away. I took a sip of wine and looked again…thank the stars I wasn’t in there…and saw a giant spider bobbing along the warm currents. I screamed and Gary came running. Bug, I yelled. (We have an equal relationship. But in my opinion, it’s still the Man’s Job to kill insects.) He leaned over and burst out laughing.
The spider was plastic. Apparently, the makers of these bath bombs thought it would be hilarious to insert a spider into the Halloween ones. Hardy har har.
It’s funny now. And great story fodder.
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