I hate spiders. (I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before.) Since I hate them, I am a huge chicken and don't want to kill them…but my husband has basically refused to kill critters for me anymore, so I am on my own. Which would be scary enough in and of itself, but I think the spiders are getting smarter. And that, my friends, is simply terrifying.
Sunday morning, I stumbled out of bed in my usual stupor to let the dogs out. Since I take something to help me sleep, I'm usually pretty confused for the first half-hour or so after I get up. I was collecting the dogs' dishes to feed them, when I saw it. Huge, black, evil freakin' spider, hanging out by the laundry room door. We keep a rolled-up catalog in the kitchen for killing critters (and threatening wayward mutts), so I grabbed it and steeled myself for battle. I gave the big #$%*^!& a solid swat, and stepped back to check his whereabouts. Except there were no whereabouts, because he was gone. No telltale smoosh on the catalog, but no sign of creepy-crawly, either. Then I heard a scratching, scuttling sound. And noticed that the catalog—which was still IN MY HAND—was moving. The spider had apparently seen the catalog coming, decided it would be a lark to cause me to have a fatal heart attack at 6:15 on a Sunday morning, and jumped inside. I was now holding one JC Penney's underwear ad, and one eight-legged ball of evil. I immediately broke out in a cold sweat, felt faint, and nearly wet myself, simultaneously. With more presence of mind than I thought I possessed, I shook the catalog violently until the monster fell out, then proceeded to beat him into oblivion. Have you ever seen Dr. No (the first James Bond movie)? Remember the tarantula scene? It was kinda like that. (For those of you who have never seen Dr. No, Bond wakes up in his hotel room to find a tarantula crawling up his arm. He flings it off, grabs a shoe, and pounds it repeatedly. During the beating, there is a big, crashing chord that plays with each whack. BAM! BAM! BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM!!! Then Bond wanders weakly off to the bathroom, clutching his stomach, presumably to hurl.)
This repeated pounding on the floor with the catalog woke up my husband, muttering about the racket. Of course, if the spider had crawled out onto my arm? He would have found me in the middle of the kitchen floor, dead of fright, and surrounded by hungry, confused (but mostly hungry) dogs. And I'm sure the spider that caused it would have been long gone. Even Gil Grissom wouldn't have been able to solve that one.
Sunday morning, I stumbled out of bed in my usual stupor to let the dogs out. Since I take something to help me sleep, I'm usually pretty confused for the first half-hour or so after I get up. I was collecting the dogs' dishes to feed them, when I saw it. Huge, black, evil freakin' spider, hanging out by the laundry room door. We keep a rolled-up catalog in the kitchen for killing critters (and threatening wayward mutts), so I grabbed it and steeled myself for battle. I gave the big #$%*^!& a solid swat, and stepped back to check his whereabouts. Except there were no whereabouts, because he was gone. No telltale smoosh on the catalog, but no sign of creepy-crawly, either. Then I heard a scratching, scuttling sound. And noticed that the catalog—which was still IN MY HAND—was moving. The spider had apparently seen the catalog coming, decided it would be a lark to cause me to have a fatal heart attack at 6:15 on a Sunday morning, and jumped inside. I was now holding one JC Penney's underwear ad, and one eight-legged ball of evil. I immediately broke out in a cold sweat, felt faint, and nearly wet myself, simultaneously. With more presence of mind than I thought I possessed, I shook the catalog violently until the monster fell out, then proceeded to beat him into oblivion. Have you ever seen Dr. No (the first James Bond movie)? Remember the tarantula scene? It was kinda like that. (For those of you who have never seen Dr. No, Bond wakes up in his hotel room to find a tarantula crawling up his arm. He flings it off, grabs a shoe, and pounds it repeatedly. During the beating, there is a big, crashing chord that plays with each whack. BAM! BAM! BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM!!! Then Bond wanders weakly off to the bathroom, clutching his stomach, presumably to hurl.)
This repeated pounding on the floor with the catalog woke up my husband, muttering about the racket. Of course, if the spider had crawled out onto my arm? He would have found me in the middle of the kitchen floor, dead of fright, and surrounded by hungry, confused (but mostly hungry) dogs. And I'm sure the spider that caused it would have been long gone. Even Gil Grissom wouldn't have been able to solve that one.
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6 comments:
oh my god! i am right there with you. i hate spiders. and oh, when they disappear and end up on your weapon of choice...yikes! ugh!! hubby will still kill the big ones for me, but he also enjoys a bit of wife torture first. bleck, no i do not need to see the remains! the only good spider is a dead spider!
hugs,
puglette
:o)
AUUGGHHH!!!
I just cleared the massive cobwebs from our dining room ceiling (note to self: look *up* more often) and in the middle of one wall in between the ceiling and the wall sits one live spider inside a web/cocoon.
I couldn't smash it because I can't deal with the feeling under the Kleenex so I left it for my husband.
He hasn't killed it yet.
(Runs to the living room and rocks back and forth while clutching her legs.)
You're so brave! I'm pretty sure I would've flung the catalog as far from me as possible and run out of the house, screaming.
Love the James Bond reference. Dr. No is my favorite Bond movie.
Puglette: Mr. Nerd has tried to chase me around with a dead spider a couple of times, too. I'm not sure which was worse: The chasing, or killing them myself. Thanks for commenting--glad you're here!
cardiogirl: Oh, man...I hate knowing a spider's there, but not being able to kill it. It seems like that always happens to me in the shower. (shivers)
JD: I know! I was so freaked out. I love the old Bond movies. It's a toss-up for me between Dr. No and Goldfinger. (Goooold-fingah!)
"I was now holding one JC Penney's underwear ad, and one eight-legged ball of evil."
Hilarious, my dear. Why are bug stories equally funny and disgusting? I'm OK if a bug scurries under something, never to be seen again. They're supposed to live under appliances and stuff, right?
I once opened the door of my dishwasher and a thousand legger dropped out onto my bare foot. My reaction would have qualified for the high jump at the next Olympics.
Oh, ewww. The gross factor of a bug increases exponentially based on the number of legs it has. Now I'm going to be ascared of my dishwasher.
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