I should take a minute to tell the story of Harry, the spider to show that we really aren’t crazy.
I moved into the ghetto two years ago this October and found the first Harry in my upstairs bathroom sink. As we are not allowed pets in the ghetto, I was very excited to have something ALIVE living in my apartment. I named him Harry because it just felt right. I left him alone for weeks, as he grew from a tiny speck to a gangly teenager with a small body and thin, long legs.
One day I came home to find his place on the bathroom counter behind the toothbrush holder EMPTY.
“Harry,” I screamed. “Where’s Harry???”
Haley admitted to washing him down the sink drain because he had taken up residence under the faucet and she needed to brush her teeth.
I was forlorn, but soon discovered other small Harrys around the apartment, dropping out of the ceiling vent in the kitchen, hiding behind the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, living behind Haley’s bed. They are all so cute, I hate to kill them. I let them go outside or wait until they get bigger and I just happen to have a vacuum in my hand and I’m having a bad day. They all grow up to look just like the first Harry.
And the kids always say “Harry’s come back to life, Mom.” And we cheer.
So it would then make perfect sense that Gina would come rushing downstairs and say “Harry is a ballerina and he’s in the shower.”