This afternoon I went down to my basement to transfer a load of laundry from washer to dryer. On my approach, I stopped dead in my tracks because I saw this gigantic spider parked in front of the dryer.
If you’ve read some of my earliest posts, you know that I fear spiders.
I looked around for weapons of defense and my hockey stick seemed that it would give me the best distance to beat the crap (sorry Hipster Dad) out of it. But I feared it might retaliate and decide to come after me if I missed it.
It was quite a dilemma. Transfer the towels that had already been left in the washing machine for at least 12 hours or take a chance that my middle-aged eyes would provide sufficient hand-eye to club the spider. I decided to take the wiener dog for a walk to see if I could entice a helpful neighbor to kill it for me.
After only five minutes of wandering on the hill with Phoebe, my neighbor the Navy man drove up. SCORE! I knew he wasn’t afraid of bugs because of our on going involvement with fake rats, snakes and most recently cockroaches. After quite a lull in snaking and ratting between our two condos, I recently dropped a rubber cockroach on their doorstep thinking that I’d catch Lola’s mom with it on her way home.
Lola’s dad (the Navy man) actually discovered the rubber roach before Lola’s mom came home and laughed off my pathetic attempt to scare them. He acknowledged that yes, snakes would make him jump…possibly the fake rat (which his daughter was the one to add to the game)…but bugs? Nah, those didn’t get him.
So when this brave defender of the United States stepped out of his vehicle, the wiener dog and I approached. I asked, “are you afraid of spiders?” Of course he asked why. I explained that a particularly large spider was preventing me from transferring laundry from washer to dryer. I hoped that he would volunteer to come slay the invader.
His reply to me? Nut up. Do you have a can of Raid?
We are both fans of Zombieland (me, thanks to Thoughtsy and Hipster). So I knew what he was saying. But I still considered whether I had other options. Dad? No. I knew he wasn’t available. My sort-of for-lack-of-a-better-word boyfriend? No. He was supposed to come by earlier but had been hit with a shit storm of work and kid issues.
Time to nut up or shut up, Betty.
I went down the stairs to the basement. Grabbed my hockey stick (thank you, Jeffrey, circa 1990). Unsure whether the reader glasses would give me a better view, I left them on and pounded it twice. It twitched. Then I wrist-shot it into the wall, away from the dryer. She shoots, she scores!
The laundry is dry. But I still have to find someone to come over and remove the carcass.