“The Itsy Bitsy Spider….NOT!”

I readily admit I have an aversion to spiders. I guess that’s putting it mildly. If I see a spider, I scream like the girly girl I am and start doing the arm waving jive thingy that signifies someone I’m creeping out at the sight of a spider even getting close to my personal space.

I hate them.

When I see one, and after the screaming and the arm waving jive thingy is in full throttle, my husband runs up the stairs in a panic. “DID SOMEONE BREAK IN?!!! I GOT A GUN!!”


“What are you talking about?”



So, he gets a shoe and slaps it – Done. Then he asks me if I want to see it. This is like asking someone if they’d like to see a dead body that was run over by a car six or seven times.

Well, I had a little “issue” the other day and my husband, the designated spider killer in the house, wasn’t home.

I was making the bed, and picked up one of the pillows off of the floor. Ya know, a nice decorative pillow to place on our pretty bed. Upon picking it up, I saw something black starting to rapidly crawl up on it…toward my hand. So, the screaming and the arm waving jive thingy starts. I get goose bumps and start shaking the pillow. It drops to the floor and now I don’t know where it is.

My arm is safe at this point, but my feet and legs are now prone to attack. Shit. I can’t just not know where the damn thing went. It’s pissed off at me for waking him up, so if I don’t kill it now, he’ll come back for me later on tonight and bite me….or pull me under the bed.

I had to kill it. By myself.

I can do this.

My spidey senses kicked in. “If I were a scared to death, pissed off spider, where would I hide?” I got on my hands and knees and peaked under the bed. There he was, next to the clump of dog hair.

I got you now, you son of a bitch (now the swearing starts to kick in….I’m getting braver).

Wait! I need a weapon. My hands of mass destruction will not be enough to kill the giant intruder, so I need to resort to a more powerful weapon. My sandal.

My Nike sandal, relatively new, and not covered with mud or dog poop, but will now be covered with spider guts.

Ok….Sssshhhhhhhhh. Don’t let him see you. Slowly I get down on the floor with my weapon in hand. He’s not moving a muscle. His 16 eyes must not see me, or he’s terrified because my weapon is waaaay bigger than he is.

I not only wacked him one time, but six…..for good measure. He was a gushy mess under my bed now, and I knew I could sleep better knowing he wouldn’t be around to crawl into my mouth or ears or bite me to death. So, I proudly wiped my hands a few times, folded my arms across my chest and stood there like the proud spider killer I’d become.

But, I had one problem I didn’t know about. I had witnesses to the murder.  His friends saw it. Horrified, they plotted revenge against me a few nights later.

Ya know what it’s like when you’re sound asleep and you feel like something is crawling on you, and you brush it away thinking it’s your hair or your husband’s finger or a leftover cracker crumb? Well, that’s what I thought was on my neck, then under my armpit, then on my side……until I woke up the next morning.

They had the last laugh. I got bit THREE times on  my neck like a fricking vampire. I have a bite under my armpit AND on my knee.

This isn’t over. To quote “Animal House”:

Bluto: What? Over? Did you say “over”? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!

Otter: [to Boon] Germans?

Boon: Forget it, he’s rolling.

Bluto: And it ain’t over now. ‘Cause when the goin’ gets tough… [thinks hard of something to say]

Bluto: The tough get goin’! Who’s with me? Let’s go!


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