I’m going to jinx this by saying this, but Phoenix is The Place To Be. Here in Phoenix, we don’t get hurricanes (unless you count a little limp-wristed scare we had a few years ago that was supposed to come charging up the Sea of Cortez and level the city and instead dropped a half-inch of rain) nor do we get earthquakes, or tornadoes.

We do, however, get scorpions.

Unless you’re a small child, a scorpion is about as threatening as a bee in terms of venom and danger. I’ve been assured that if I get nailed by one, a benadryl and some ice oughta do me.

Still, there’s something so viscerally frightening about them that when I see them I seek refuge on top of a chair like some sort of hysterical stereotype of a housewife with a mouse. True Fact: Once, in a manufacturing plant I worked at, a mouse literally jumped on my shoulder and ran down my bare leg and out my office door and I dealt with it more intelligently than I deal with a scorpion.

Another True Fact: I am a Scorpio. Go figure.

Yet Another True Fact: Once the kids and I found a dead scorpion in the kitchen right before we were leaving for school and work. We all assembled in the kitchen to inspect it. The kids were fairly certain that it was, indeed, pushing up little scorpion daisies.

I was not so sure. I suggested that we drop a heavy book on it to make sure…the last thing I wanted was an angry, crippled scorpion stalking me late at night.

It was Abby (maybe eight at the time?) who suggested that we put a paper towel over the creature before we dropped the dictionary on it so as not to leave any creature guts on the book. Abby = Smart. And Calm Under Pressure.

The deed done, I was faced with another dilemma. At some point, I was going to have to deal with a crushed scorpion. Such is the depth of my phobia that I actually called, not my husband, who would only laugh hysterically at me (because he was safe at work where there were no scorpions lurking about his desk), but a good friend, Jim, who offered to stop by the house and dispose of the corpse on his way to work.

That’s a good friend.

Now that you know the strength of my fears of weird, primitive creatures crawling about my kitchen, I invite you to consider this. The fact that Sandra Frosti stumbled into her kitchen in search of coffee and found that rooting around in her tupperware cabinet and was still coherent enough that she could speak to a reporter without needing oxygen first is a sign of major cojones on her part.

Sandra, I salute you, and will send all my scorpions to you. Clearly, you’re better able to deal with these than me.