I just had the most traumatic afternoon of anyone, ever. I've yet to recover from the HORROR and FEAR and STEPHEN KINGNESS of it. I'm still nauseas from the adrenaline.
I decided to be a good wife and do some deep, hardcore cleaning before my husband comes home on Friday. I decided to start with the entryway downstairs as it would be the first thing he sees. I rue my decision. I regret it. I weep at the cruel twists of fate.
There's a little cubby area under the stairs where we've just thrown our crap in since we moved in last year, and it gives a really bad impression when you enter. I started pulling all the stuff out - suitcases, cat carriers, rollerskates, a really huge plastic thing that I can only assume came with the bed which we unpacked in September etcetc. I was happily sweeping away when I nudged a little box that use to hold a Bubba Gump glass.
That's when it happened.
(shudder.)
The spider. The GIANT spider. I've never, ever seen a spider that big before. The legs!
(shudder)
Its legs would rival a eastern european weightlifting woman on steroids.
I am not a girl who is afraid of bugs. I don't find nature disturbing. But I'm fairly sure that I have arachnophobia now, from that one hideous spider.
So in the middle of a sweeping movement a monsterous spider, whom I will henceforth call Shelob, falls out of a little box and starts scuttling towards the nearest wall. I scream. I scream like a little girl and in fear I drop my only weapon and defence - my broom. I start to babble to myself about how that fucking thing cannot be fucking real how can it possibly be that fucking big. To fully appreciate my situation you must know I was pretty much trapped where I was. I had junk scattered all around me that I had just carelessly and without spider-awareness touched. Were there more? Were they going to come to the other guy's defence? Had I wandered into a Stephen King novel? Was I going to die?
I stared wildly around. Should I freeze and hope the spiders wouldn't see me? Should I climb over all the crap, that no longer were prized possessions but death traps, and hope spiders didn't cling on to my legs in spidery rage? I ran upstairs. Hyperventilating, still swearing, stumbling over my own feet. I started writing people on skype and MSN in all caps to make sure they understood the gravity of the situation. Clearly, I was going to die. And soon. Very soon. The hoards of spiders were probably emerging from their little hidey-holes and becoming organized.
*shudder*
How do I kill them? I asked my friends. Poison? FIRE? I armed myself with my biggest biology book and shouted to nobody in particular: "Spiders are going to suck irony"
Except by now my arachophobia was running deep in my veins. I would make it half way down the stairs and then bolt up again.
*shudder*
I got my iPhone and skype-called my sister and I told her my brother had already refused to come over to kill KILL KILL IT DEAD for me, so she must stay on the phone with me incase I got bitten and needed emergent medical attention. The conversation ended up being two hours long as I slowly picked things up with the end of my recovered broom while yelling "I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU". Obviously, along with being an awful wife I am a terrible liar. But apparently it was hillarious.
I ended up not killing Shelob. I thought about how fat it was. I thought about the insects it must have eaten
*shudder*
to make it that fat. I decided one giant spider is better than a thousand small ones.
*shudder*
And that is the story of how I was straight up PUNISHED for trying to be a good wife.
I am not sure I will be attempting it again.
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