Let me preface this post by saying I have *slight* arachnophobia. And I'm slightly tipsy. Fine. Maybe an entire bottle of wine tipsy. Don't judge. We all have our weaknesses.
This week has been... hectic. And by hectic, I mean, it's been one burn away from hell. Both of my daughters got sick for the billionth time since the oldest started kindergarten in August. We accidentally made two car payments this month because of the speed of snail mail from Honolulu to anywhere else in the world and the bank refused to return our $400+ check. Lots of schoolwork, lots of housework, family drama, etc., and I'm ready to go to the beach just to bury my head in the sand. Or swim to some distant island for some peace and quiet. But I don't want to go to the beach because of my embarrassing paleness, and chasing after the toddler is more of a chore than relaxation. Annnnyway.
I thought things were looking up today, but boy was I wrong. The hubby and I finally got some alone time. Take that as you will. Being happy and tired, I decided to take a nap and leave both children in hubby's capable hands. Well, I had just fallen asleep when he throws open the bedroom door and shouts, "Chels! Come quick, I need your help!"
Now, I'm a housewife that doesn't do much more than sit on my ever-widening ass every day, let alone make the effort to work-out, but I sure as heck jumped outta that bed as fast as I've moved in years, heart pounding in my throat, afraid something awful had happened to one of my babies. I briefly took note of Tony, my husband, holding a broom as I ran past him to the stairs. When I saw my youngest happily playing in the hallway, I stopped long enough to ask what's wrong. And what is wrong? Nothing but a giant, enormous, mutant spider that my husband was afraid to take care of on his own.
I paused long enough to put on my pants and my glasses, hoping my heart wouldn't explode from what he's just put me through.
Now, I really don't like spiders. I once had a pet spider when I was young and naive. She was a wolf spider I caught on my back porch. I named her Exterminator, ya know, because she killed all the other bugs... Get it? Annnnyway.
I'm no longer the "pet" spider type of gal. I hate them. I'm terrified of them. Even the teeny tiny little ones freak me the eff out. And you're probably thinking my husband is a pansy for asking me to take care of this one. Well, you're wrong. He may be a pansy, but not because of this spider. It was freakishly huge. Crouching ten feet up the wall in the corner. Scary as hell. I'd rather face a charging gorilla. Did any of you see the gorilla that walks like a man on the news today? Check out foxnews. It was adorable. Back to the spider.
Honestly, I don't know exactly what it looked like. I wouldn't get close enough to make out details. It was black. It had way too many legs to make me comfortable. And worst of all, it was IN MY HOUSE! I'm afraid I'll never sleep peacefully again. My husband grabbed a broom and knocked it down, then smashed it. When he went to sweep him into the dustpan, the spider pulled some sort of martial arts crap, hopped from his back to his legs, and took off running. And so did I. Towards the front of the house, totally prepared to dash out the front door, jump in the car, and take my terrified self to the beach. Paleness be damned. But good old hubster, he gave the 8-legged freak of nature a few more good wacks, sucked him up with an old vacuum (that will be at the curb for trash pickup come Monday), and assured me he was dead.
I'm sure this all seems awfully dramatic to you. And believe me, it was. I was on the phone the entire time, trying to get a hold of my dad. I think I had a crazy notion of asking him to send me a gun so I could shoot the damn thing. I'm not a sniper or anything, but I would have shot at the spider until I ran out of bullets. Then I would have beaten it with the gun. I ran. I screamed. I squealed like a little girl. There may have been a few tears shed. Lots of tears shed. I'm not proud. But I'm alive. And to celebrate, I got a bottle of wine for my ordeal. And I drank the whole thing. I even kept the bottle beside me until it was gone because I was afraid to go in the kitchen and see Spidey's family, lying in wait for revenge.
And you know what I learned? Wine actually does make things better. And I'm calling a real exterminator first thing Monday morning. And I'm sleeping with a bat under my pillow for the foreseeable future.
