“There are currently forty-thousand described species of spiders on Earth. That is probably only half of the true species diversity. There are only forty-six to forty-seven hundred species of mammals,” explains Paula Cushing, Curator of Invertebrate Zoology at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science.

I don’t know about you, but that figure makes me feel a little outnumbered.

I am spending an hour with Cushing and a couple of her eight-legged associates, learning more about spiders in an attempt to resolve my “relationship issues.” I have had a love-hate relationship with spiders from the get-go. Well, minus the “love” part.

Whether they are hanging out in my shower yearning to reenact that scene from “Psycho,” running across my face as I turn out the light, or lurking in the dark corners of my basement, I have always believed they are out to get me. Perhaps it is shameless species profiling, but their multitudinous eyes, disturbing legs and bulbous abdomens scream “dubious,” “shifty” and “treacherous” to me.

“I have no idea why people have a fear of spiders,” Cushing notes. “It’s really an irrational fear. We’re thousands of times bigger than these animals. If you’re queasy around them, you can just stomp on them. It doesn’t take that much effort to take control of the situation.”

Obviously, Cushing doesn’t advocate stomping on spiders, but any encounters I’ve had with them have generally ended with only one of us alive. When forced to dispatch them to their eternal damnation, I favor non-squishing methods. I learned at a young age that it is not diamonds but a stockpile of Raid that is a girl’s best friend. At least if you are a girl growing up in a basement bedroom. If no Raid or other bug spray is available, hairspray does well in a pinch (Viva la Aquanet! What? It was the 80’s!).

Maybe I’ve been out of line. Do I feel the beginnings of a change of heart? I mean, Cushing is the coolest scientist I’ve ever met. Decked out in spider web shirt and jewelry, surrounded by cabinets stuffed with specimens, walls covered with spider movie posters and computer screens displaying enlarged images of spider genitalia – or spider porn as the pros refer to it – she exudes logic and reason. And her words of logic are this: Spiders are not out to get me.

If that is true, why do they hang out in my shower? According to Cushing, they don’t want to stab me with tiny butcher knives as though they are Anthony Perkins. They just want a drink. “Spiders like to stay clean, but they aren’t using showers to do that,” Cushing explains. “They seek out your shower because they are seeking out the moisture. If you’re really a friend to spiders, you’ll give them a little droplet of water so they can get on their way.”

Cushing loves spiders, an essential trait for an arachnologist one would assume. “Spiders are constantly making me laugh,” she says. We talk a bit about the common spiders one might find in or around a home in Colorado, and she describes them with as much excitement as I would describe a Balenciaga gown at ninety-nine percent off.

“One that you’ll find in your garden or basement is Dysdera crocata. It has sort of a rusty red head and a grayish abdomen. The legs are rusty red as well. It’s a strikingly pretty spider in terms of its color pattern. It also has very large jaws that jut out in front.” It sounds more like a bulldog than a beauty pageant winner to me, but I’m not the expert.

One of the live specimens on the table in front of us happens to be a spider common on Colorado porches. Cushing removes it from its current residence, a plastic container, and allows it to frolic about on her hands. It makes a leap for the table, but to my great relief, it is quickly apprehended. “In the fall, I get a lot of questions about orb weaving spiders because of this species, Araneus gemmoides. These spiders are out there all the time, but earlier in the year, they are immature. People might notice the webs, but they don’t necessarily notice the spider until this time of year when it becomes mature and really, really large. This is actually a small animal,” she says, displaying the humongous orb weaver to me. “Sometimes they can get twice this size.”

Suddenly infused with bravery I ask, “Can I hold it?” Cushing quickly consents. She instructs me to place my hand on the table and then deposits the orb weaver upon it. The spider promptly attempts to run off. Cushing herds it back and it runs off again. Apparently, spiders are not like cats. This one did not gravitate towards the least friendly person in the room. I felt the sting of rejection but, amazingly, not of fangs.

“Spiders are very unlikely to bite humans,” Cushing informs me. “Regardless of what you hear in the popular media, what you see on the Internet, what you read in newspapers, spiders are very reluctant to bite humans. When bites do occur, someone has accidentally pressed down on a spider that might be hiding under a board or log, behind a cabinet, maybe under a box. If you press down on it, it’s going to feel pretty provoked and threatened. That’s when bites occur. They are provoked into biting to save their own skin.”

A few days later at the Butterfly Pavilion, the curator, Mary Ann Hamilton, echoes that sentiment. “We’ve been open a long time, and we’ve never had any visitors bitten.”

I have come to the Butterfly Pavilion to hold the famous Rosie, a Chilean rose hair tarantula beloved by Colorado children. I reason that if she has never bitten a child, she is unlikely to bite me.

Hamilton places Rosie gently in my hands. “If you’re feeling really uncomfortable, let me know and I’ll just take her away,” she reassures me. She takes great care to point out Rosie’s most endearing characteristics: her fuzzy mustache, her little eyes, her eyelashes, the fact that she never has to shave her legs.

I am just getting used to the feel of Rosie in my hands when Hamilton exclaims, “Oh! Stay still. She may want to poop on you… sorry about that!” The spider poop resembles chunky chocolate milk. However, having it in my hand is decidedly less disturbing than observing my nephew’s projectile vomiting of chocolate milk all over the kitchen floor shortly before Thanksgiving dinner. That kid would make a great antipersonnel grenade. Pump him full of chocolate milk, give him a shake, then chuck him over the wall into the enemy’s camp… but I digress.

I hold Rosie for fifteen minutes without a single bite – not even a nibble. In fact, she seems to like me. “Rosie is quite comfortable with you,” says Hamilton.  “You can see she is pulling her legs in a little bit, and that’s a sign of getting comfortable and cuddling in. I think you’ve made a new friend. She may not want to stay with us. She may want to go home with you!”

Since my time with Cushing, Hamilton and, of course, Rosie, I have given up shellacking spiders with hair styling products. In fact, I have become a regular cocktail waitress to the spiders in my home instead, offering them little droplets of water whenever I happen to spot one. I feel strangely pleased when they drink them. I would expand the menu to include tiny mohitos and daiquiris, but I don’t want a bunch of unruly drunk spiders trashing my place.

— By Angela Rose.
Rose writes a column, “Facing Your Fears.” Next issue: NEED.

Click here to view the embedded video.

These are the questions I ask myself, repeatedly, during the weeks leading up to my appointment with Joe Miller, tattoo artist and co-owner of Old Larimer Street Tattoo.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Now that I’m actually in the tattoo parlor, perched awkwardly on the chair and trying to remain perfectly still (my heart thumping wildly) as Miller sketches a rough concept on my back for placement, all I can think is “Go big or go home.” As soon as Miller and I began discussing what I wanted, I realized a minuscule black cat in the center of my right shoulder would be exactly that.

I’m as nervous as a long-tailed feline in a room full of rocking chairs, as the expression goes, but I am fully committed. Miller has explained how tattoo art has changed over the years, and how the concept of “what a tattoo is” has changed, as well. He has shown me some of his work, and has described to me his vision for the piece he feels would suit me. He has expressed his belief that the best tattoos “fill the space.” He is obviously talented and passionate about his art, and I feel I can trust him not to steer me wrong.

I’m a whole lot tougher than I used to be, but I’m still nervous about the potential for pain.

“How bad is this going to hurt?” I ask.

“Oh, it will only feel like you’re being massaged with a red hot soldering iron,” Miller replies.

He’s joking. He explains that the degree of discomfort will vary depending on location, tools and techniques. He advises me to sit still, and breathe in slowly and deeply through my nose and out my mouth throughout the process, both to help with pain management as well as enable him to get into a rhythm and ensure a more perfect result.

He starts.

It’s tough at first to remain still and breathe. After an hour, I’ve decided it feels a lot like the shock knives we sometimes train with in Krav Maga — only being shocked repeatedly in the same area over and over. That’s certainly more painful than being smothered by kittens, but decidedly less painful than being stuck in an airport full of screaming infants.

I have a lot of time to think during the next three and a half of hours, so I think about why I am here, the “fears” I am facing. Does this hurt? Yes. Does it involve needles? Yes, though they’re not as scary looking as I had imagined. Is there blood involved? Yes, but Miller is good at keeping the paper towels he is using to wipe it off out of my sight.

I hate blood. I know it must flow through my veins, and that’s fine. But it needs to stay in there. I don’t appreciate it when it finds a way out, like after the husband opens the shower curtain to grab his toothbrush, letting in frigid morning air, and I end up shaving the tops off a leg full of goose bumps. Or when it is forcibly withdrawn by needle for a blood test, no matter how “gentle” the nurse may be. I’ve had to sit down to avoid fainting after incidents such as these.

According to my cardiologist, Jamie Doucet of the Colorado Cardiovascular Center (by far the cutest cardiologist in Boulder; I am talking the George Clooney as Dr. Ross kind of cute, girls), this isn’t that unusual. However, it’s easily avoided. Don’t stick yourself with needles and try not to bleed.

Miller announces that he’s just about finished, so I prepare myself to look at the final product. Will I love it?
Will I hate it? Will I have to start saving for an expensive tattoo removal procedure, or avoid wearing anything backless for the rest of my life? Will small children run away screaming when they see me?

I’m thrilled.

Miller explains what he’s done to flesh out the original concept, including the gorgeous shading that gives the large black cat dimension and the shadowy cats in the background that add depth to the piece. It’s unlike anything I originally imagined, and yet it’s somehow perfectly me.

If you are unable to sit still for extended periods of time, or have a very low tolerance for discomfort, you probably won’t enjoy getting a tattoo — or at least not a large one. But overall, any pain is really not that bad.

I didn’t faint, I didn’t cry, and my shoulder is now a one-of-a-kind work of art. Am I finally “cool?” I don’t know — but I can always go stand in a walk-in freezer.

Are you ready to get your own one-of-a-kind tattoo? Consider the artists at Old Larimer Street Tattoo in Denver (303-296-0447, www.larimertattoo.com). Get your tattoo before the end of the year and the artists will donate a portion of the proceeds to www.thinkhumanity.org, an organization created to help refugees in Africa.

Tips for your best tattoo

Tattoos are no longer just for sailors and biker gang members. How do I know? My own mother has a tattoo (and as far as I know, she’s never sailed).

According to Joe Miller, tattoo artist and co-owner of Old Larimer Street Tattoo, gone are the days of tattoos of “a dragon with a castle” (unless that’s what you want, of course). Modern tattoo artists are pushing the limits of their art (just watch a show like “LA Ink”), and creating more three-dimensional and even photo-realistic designs.

If you think you’re ready to express yourself with an artistic masterpiece of the flesh, here are a few things to keep in mind.

It’s a commitment. Tattoos are forever. Sure you might be able to get rid of it after many expensive hours of surgical laser treatment, but who has that kind of time (or money)? If you change your mind more frequently than the Colorado weather, then a tattoo may not be for you. Miller makes an excellent point when he says, “A tattoo is not like a T-shirt. You do not take it off.”

Consider placement carefully. While tattoo art has become increasing more accepted in our society, it may still be frowned upon in some workplaces. So unless you’re a Maori warrior, a facial tattoo is likely not your best bet. Think about how often you want your tattoo to show, and how easy you want to be able to “hide” it when/if necessary.

The artist makes all the difference. How many people have been tattooed in garages in South Dakota during the Sturgis biker rally? How many have picked a tattoo out of a book, only to meet someone else with the same design? How many are walking around unaware of what those Chinese symbols tattooed on their lower back really mean? Choose your artist carefully. Ask for referrals from people you meet with tattoos that you admire (believe me, once you’ve decided to get a tattoo, you will start paying attention to everyone else’s tattoos — maybe even to the point of being creepy). Ask to see pictures of other work the artist has done.

Communicate with visuals whenever possible. Would you go to a new stylist and ask for a “playful but serious” haircut without a picture of what you have in mind? I didn’t think so. Nor should you go to your tattoo artist and ask for something “retro cool” or “painterly” without examples of what you mean.

Descriptions such as these can mean a hundred different things. As you’re discussing your artist’s ideas for your piece, ask him or her for examples of the techniques and styles they’re suggesting. When it’s going to be permanent, it’s best to be on the same page.

Dress comfortably and appropriately. If you’re getting a tattoo of any size, you’re going to be sitting still for a while. Don’t wear that new pair of super-skinny jeans if they prevent blood from reaching your brain when you sit down. If you’re getting a tattoo on your back and you don’t want to hang out shirtless, wear a halter or tube top that exposes the area where the tattoo will be placed. (Note: Tube tops are fashion don’ts under any other circumstances, unless you’re vacationing in a tropical region and maybe not even then.)

Plan ahead. Spending two weeks tracking rattlesnakes in the Arizona desert? Don’t get a tattoo right before you go. You need to keep it out of direct sunlight for at least three weeks (and always wear sunscreen on it after that). Joining the local swim team? Get your tattoo after swim season, or at least three weeks before.

Chlorine is a definite “not to wear” until your art is completely healed. You’re also going to want to avoid repeated stretching of the tattooed area until it is healed, so tailor your workouts accordingly.

Follow all care instructions. My artist advised me to wash the tattooed area three to five times daily, followed by a thin application of vitamin-enriched ointment for five days. Your artist will give you detailed care instructions as well. Ask questions about anything you do not understand.

— By Angela Rose
Rose writes a column, “Facing Your Fears.” In December, she faces her fear of eight-legged zombies (otherwise known as spiders).

I have just finished reading the liability waiver and am now preparing to sign away any rights to legal action, come what may. No big deal, you say?

“I UNDERSTAND, WITHOUT ANY DOUBT, THAT I AM ENTERING THIS PROPERTY AT MY OWN RISK BECAUSE I AM A CRAZY PERSON. THAT ABSOLUTELY NO INSURANCE OF ANY KIND IS PROVIDED FOR ME. ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS TO ME, REGARDLESS OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES (EVEN HELMET HAIR), IS MY RESPONSIBILITY. MYSELF, FAMILY, HEIRS AND CATS CAN NEVER MAKE A CLAIM OF ANY KIND AGAINST ANY PERSON, CORPORATION, ETC., FOR ANYTHING EVER!”

It really is printed in all caps. I may have added the bit about “crazy person” and “cats.” OK, the bit about “helmet hair,” as well (but they should include that; helmet hair begs for a lawsuit).

I’ve never done anything in my life that required such a waiver. And as I walk across the parking lot, my trepidation growing, I begin to feel like maybe now is not the best time to start.

I approach the mile-long asphalt track, and helpful IMI Motorsports employee Dave Weimert (aka “Super Dave”) calls out to me, “Ready to have some fun?”

Click here to view the embedded video.

When I stammer something like, “Not sure about this, think I left the oven on, maybe next time,” he tries to put me at ease.

Dave has picked out a nice “tame” little number for me, the Intrepid Race Kart with modified Honda four-stroke engine.

“What’s its top speed?” I ask, wondering what he means by “tame.”

“60 to 65 miles per hour.”

Blimey! I haven’t felt this nervous since, well, since 10 minutes ago with that legal disclaimer.

I’ve always considered the cute little go-carts at Boondocks mini death traps. This go-cart, however, looked like what you’d get if a Boondocks go-cart started taking performance enhancing drugs and rolling you for your lunch money.

Far from certain that I can handle it, I head into the equipment shed to suit up. Keep this in mind: I like to dress cute (always have, always will). Perhaps the hardest part of this experience — until I signed away my life and helmet hair — was deciding what to wear.

“No open-toed shoes allowed,” according to the rules on their Web site, drastically limited my choice of summer footwear. I had consoled myself with the thought of how “cool” I’d look in a sleek, fitted, black racing suit.

It was not to be.

As I clamber (very ungracefully) into the go-cart, I can’t help but notice how my little black Keds (with polkadot trim!) look incongruous at the end of my giant padded blueberry driving-suit-clad legs. It’s beginning to get really hot inside the baggy suit, helmet, neck collar and gloves, and I can feel sweat running down my neck. Dave goes over the rules and fires up the engine.

“Stick to the middle, and you’ll be fine,” he assures me.

As I ease out onto the track, I review my feelings on driving, in general. My father taught me to drive when I was 16. I failed my first driver’s test, in part because he doesn’t believe in the use of directional indicators (aka “blinkers”) and would actually scold me for using them. Another big factor in my failure was choosing to take the test during the lunch hour rush, in Boulder, when I had learned to drive at night. Why at night? Fewer people on the roads.

I don’t enjoy driving much at all. I still get that fluttery feeling in my stomach — like weasels doing water ballet in my digestive fluids — when I approach a traffic signal. Will it turn yellow? Should I slow down? Should I stomp on the gas and go for it?

If I know I need to turn right at some point, I will drive in the right lane for my entire journey. It takes a lot to make me pass another vehicle. If you’re going more than 20 miles per hour under the speed limit I might pass you — but only if I have plenty of time to get back into my lane. I’ll also plan my route to avoid having to make left-hand turns across traffic without an arrow. And forget parallel parking. I’ll park a mile away to avoid it if necessary.

Back to the mini death trap.

As thunderclouds gather overhead, I scream around the track, the go-cart engine roaring behind me. OK, well, to be honest it’s more like I putter around the track, the engine sputtering behind me (that gas pedal is tricky!).

I imagine the hosts of the BBC’s “Top Gear” program critiquing my laps. “She’s keeping quite a nice line,” says James May. “Bollocks, I could run faster than that!” responds Jeremy Clarkson.

After four laps, the turns still make me nervous. But a couple of times I find myself making a turn with my foot still on the gas — and it was OK. It was fun, even.

As I finish up my laps and enter the pit, I feel rather exhilarated. I exclaim to Dave that I must have been going at least 50 miles per hour. He estimates my top speed to be “maybe 35” on the straightaway.
But you know what? I don’t care. I don’t care that I didn’t take that cart to its top speed. I plan to take my father out to the track for his birthday, and next time I’ll drive even faster. Maybe I’ll go crazy and get that go-cart up to 40 miles per hour.

Maybe.

Got a need for speed?
IMI Motorsports in Dacono — 303-833-4949, www.imimotorsports.com. Tell Super Dave that Super Angela sent you.

— By Angela Rose
Rose is a self-proclaimed scaredy-cat who writes a bimonthly column, “Facing your fears,” where she tries out ridiculous activities and shares her terrors with you. Join her in October when she faces her lifelong fear of needles and becomes scarred for life.

I am not a thrill-seeker. My idea of an exhilarating adventure is a sale at Anthropologie. (Really, is there anything better than the adrenaline rush of finding that perfect dress at 60 percent off?)

I have never driven the go-carts at Boondocks (they look like miniature death traps to me), and I had a panic attack the last time I rode a roller coaster. I have never been to Water World; I’ve been too self-conscious to wear a swimsuit in public for the last 15 years, I’ve even developed my own elaborate code of conduct to ensure I am never eaten, nor “tasted,” by a shark. First rule: do not enter any body of water in which sharks are known to reside.

However, while enjoying chicken nachos and a couple of Firehouse Ales at the Walnut Brewery the other day, my husband reminded me of a statement I made on my 35th birthday almost two years ago: “I want to live the next 35 years of my life as much out of my head as I lived the first 35 in it.”

I had forgotten about this statement. But as soon as he said it, I remembered — and remembered the experience that had prompted it.

My office had arranged a team-building self-defense class at the Krav Maga Worldwide Regional Training Center in Broomfield. I went into it not expecting much. In fact, I didn’t even wear workout clothes that day. I figured we’d learn to scream “rape” at the top of our lungs and kick someone in the “gentleman’s region.”

I was wrong. The instructor put us through a rigorous hour-long workout that was more intense than anything I had ever experienced. We learned punches, hammer fists and choke defenses. I was hooked from the moment they presented me with the tombstone shield and told me to hit it as hard and fast as I could.

I called my husband immediately after the class and (allegedly) panted breathlessly into the phone, “I’m covered in sweat and Carol punched me in the face. It was great!”

I signed up for a membership a few weeks later. Doing so was a big deal for me. I’ve never been athletic. I never played sports outside of what was required for phys ed (I was that kid in the corner chosen last when picking teams, but I’d have been your first choice for a lab partner). I’ve always felt awkward and uncoordinated, even painfully self-conscious.

Taking up Krav Maga was the first step I’ve ever taken to change that. I stuck with it and have seen changes I wouldn’t have believed possible. Yes, I’m a lot stronger physically than I’ve ever been before. But I’ve also discovered coordination I didn’t know I had. Even, dare I say, a little bit of grace. I now own a dozen sports bras and six pairs of athletic shoes, boxing gloves in two different weights, grappling gloves, shin pads, a sparring helmet, my own heavy bag, and a self-confidence I’ve never had before.

It was that first lesson that spurred my statement to my husband on my 35th birthday. I’ve continued with Krav Maga, even passing my yellow belt test last September, but I haven’t pushed myself any further. I suppose I could say, “life got in the way,” as it so often seems to do (or more like “the couch got in the way,” as my butt seems to be once again be frequently attached to it).

But as my 37th birthday approaches , I want something more. I want to face my fears, my inhibitions and my self-doubt and try all the things I’ve ever dreamed of doing. Maybe even some I haven’t. When I die, at the ripe old age of 250, I don’t want to lament to myself, “Why didn’t I take that belly dancing class?”

So I’m going to do it. From this point forward, I’m going to live more in the world and less in my head. If this means placing myself in uncomfortable situations over and over again, bring it on! Maybe I’ll discover talents I didn’t know I have and persistence I never imagined. Maybe I’ll fail spectacularly.

Either way, I know I’ll be living — really and truly living — without anything standing in my way.