To Hell with Popeye

Earlier this evening, in a very conscious effort to include a few greens in dinner, I reached for the bag o' spinach in the fridge. These things have been a god send - they're re-sealable, cut, cleaned and "ready to eat!".

This bag was now half full, having been opened earlier last week for additions to sandwiches, stir frys and anything else that seemed lacking in the veggie arena.

Two handfuls of spinach were added to the tomato sauce I was preparing. At that point, I dropped the stir spoon, flew back and began hissing and cursing as though enough sizzling air could put a Great Wall of China up between me and what I had just nonchalantly dropped into my dinner.

A moth.

An inch long, fat, hairy, grey, and thankfully very dead, moth.

Fortunately, my husband was in the room and could dispose of the vile little bastard in short order. It's still sitting in the garbage upstairs, and I am giving it a wide berth. It looked dead, but it may just be sleeping. I've already point-blank refused to have anything further to do with that garbage, and it will have to go outside TONIGHT. I still probably won't sleep well.

Moths, as some of you may not know, are vicious. They careen around wildly only to land on you, if not blatantly slam into you - certainly with the intent to do damage. I'm positive that, one day soon, some scientist will prove that moths actually have teeth - headline: The Real Vampires Turn Into Moths. And, please do not forget The Mothman Prophecy with its inhuman creepy winged beings.... Seriously, it's a thing! Somebody chose that name for a reason.

Oh, I know: I can hear a few eyeballs rolling and the hint of a chuckle or two. Mock me now, if you will. Go ahead, eat your spinach and become oh so much healthier than I. It won't do you any good when the moths come for you.