Drama in the islands.

So, don't get me wrong, I still really love the D.R., but last night I made a very scary new friend. By "friend," I mean a horrifying, puke-inducing hairy monster of a rat spider who the world-wide internets identified as a tarantula. I saw it in the hallway connecting our suite and the kids'. At first, I thought it was a toy, a vile souvenir purchased by one of my freakish offspring. Then it moved. And I didn't remember anyone whining for batteries, so I knew it was real. Although it was the middle of the night, I screamed like a woman on fire (or like the toddler having a tantrum not ten feet from me here in the resort lobby. Well, maybe I wasn't that bad. Damn. This kid can scream.) My screams did nothing to rouse my husband, who had fallen asleep with the Tank on his chest in our living area. I stood right beside them, screaming,

"WAKE UP! I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP NOW! DAMNIT! WAKE UP!"

As always, he pretended he was awake. Why does he think I'll fall for this?

"I'm awake," he declared in that voice people use when they're trying desperately to pretend they are sober. His eyes remained closed as he slept soundly. Lucky for both of us, he was sober and (eventually) awake. Much as the state trooper harasses the drunk, I perservered. My poor husband, who is likely as afraid of furry monsters as I am, knew there was no way out. Still holding the sleeping baby - I was screaming, "PUT THE BABY DOWN!" for fear the monster would fly up and swallow him whole - he stomped the evil interloper, twice for good measure. Thus, I watched gleefully as my new friend died. I hope this posthumous photo gives you a basic feel for the spider, which crumbled in death. He or she was the size of a large tea saucer beforehand.

This morning, I found this video of a tarantula. I think my husband will confirm our spider looked similar, if not identical. He was probably still asleep for the spider stomp. If you think the fact people keep these things as pets makes me feel bad about its death, you don't know me at all. I'm totally down with my place near the top of the food chain.



In other news, we're all having a blast, wish you were here, etc. The kids love the Mini Club, although the ones in double digits have to protest just a little before they run to join their group. The Tank has a new catchphrase, "I don't care," which he uses about everything. We think it means "I don't like..." Just before he tears into the toddler room, he announces, "I don't care my school." He seems to have bonded with a guy who works there and communicates mainly by pretending to be a baby tiger. When I asked my husband what language the guy spoke, he said, "None of them really." Because several languages are common here, physical comedy is the main mode of communication in the kids' program. Cup smashing followed by hysterical giggling is common.

The children have maintained their cool about the number of exposed bosoms. My husband, less mature, cannot get over seeing some guy's junk peeking out from his - admittedly way too small - Speedo. I, on the other hand, have been trying to catch a glimpse ever since he told me about it. The guy, who looks like he swallowed a beach ball and has hair plugs on his stomach and back, is less than enticing. But it's like looking at the spider. I have to see, I just have to see. Nightmares be damned.

Namasté, y'all!