I hate spiders. I know no one actually likes spiders, but I really hate them. In fact, I'm one of those annoying people who has to go tell it on the mountain about how much I hate spiders every chance I get. That's why I'm blogging about it now. It seems like something everyone should know about me. I once bawled on the phone to Chris about how spiders "shouldn't be allowed to exist in this world" and how it wasn't fair that we had to share the earth with them. The sobbing lasted for a good 10 minutes until I basically cried myself to sleep like a baby. It was late at night, I had PMS, and I'd just encountered the largest spider of my life in the basement. It was a weak point in my personal history.
Speaking of encountering a spider in the basement, that just happened to me again in our new basement. There's a window behind the TV, which is where I do my Jillian Michaels DVD. (I'm in the process of getting ripped in 30, in case you were wondering why I looked so damn good lately.) In that window lived a spider. Let's call him Pete. I noticed Pete chillin' on the curtains one day while working on my fitness, and I stared at him for a few minutes before deciding he was too hard to get to. Plus, Chris was upstairs and I was too afraid to kill him myself. A spider on a curtain is a tough kill, because you don't have a hard surface to crush it on.
So I let Pete live, proud of myself for being so mature about sharing my home with a damn dirty spider. The next time I went to work out, I checked to see if Pete was still there. And he was! He hadn't moved in 24 hours! Okay, fine, 72 hours. I don't have time to work out every single day, sue me. I blew on the curtains to see if maybe Pete was just an elderly spider who had curled up and died in my curtains. He wiggled his legs disgustingly in response to the breeze. Yup, he was alive. This lazy-ass spider had somehow managed to spend 72 hours in the same location without moving. Talk about pissing your life away.
I took another short hiatus from working out, because I was too busy sitting and eating, and when I returned a full five days later--eight days from the original Pete discovery--he was still there. I blew on him again, and he wriggled again.
Alright, that's it. I thought. I can only be tolerant for so long. I wasn't going to stand for being mocked openly in my own home. It was time for me to make an example of Pete for all the other spiders lurking in the shadows. They had to know what happened to spiders who had the audacity of hope.
"Chris, will you come downstairs and kill this spider for me?" I asked. The spider was geographically as far away from Chris as possible within the house.
"No," he said.
I'm used to this. For some reason, no one ever wants to kill spiders for me. Despite the fact that nothing terrifies me more than having to kill a spider myself, and despite the fact that everyone else in the world is perfectly capable of doing it, no one ever wants to lend me a hand.
"Please? I'm scared. I can't work out with a spider taunting me. If I don't work out I'll eventually become one of those obese women who has to be surgically removed from her couch because her skin melds with the leather."
"Why don't you just kill it yourself?" I explained to him that it was a tough kill, outside my skill level for sure. "Just spray it with some scrubbing bubbles," he said. "It's a guaranteed kill because the foam covers their body, and then they can't breathe."
Whaaaaat? HOW had he kept this from me for so long? If I had known this years ago, I could have become the woman I'd always aspired to be, a woman who kills her own spiders. Maybe I would have become a woman who changes her own oil too! I could have been the best, most successful woman. I'd probably even have a briefcase with important work documents.
So I headed back downstairs, scrubbing bubbles in hand. As I approached Pete's deathbed, I grew apprehensive. What if I had bad aim and he got away? What if the spray was so powerful that it somehow caused Pete to spring back and attack my face? But I sucked it up and bravely aimed the nozzle. I sprayed the curtains to kingdom come. Pete fell from his web and onto the window sill, writhing around in the white bubbles like it was a foam party at a gay club. "Keep the change, you filthy animal." I said to him. The solution fizzed and foamed, growing thicker and more opaque. It grew so dense that I could no longer see Pete's struggling legs.
I set the can down and got down to the business of getting ripped. About seven minutes into the workout, I checked in on Pete again. The foam had subsided, leaving his squeaky clean remains behind. Good. He's dead. I thought. Chris is a genius.
But then! Like a zombie hand shooting out from the grave, he lifted a leg triumphantly. It was his last stand! His last vain attempt at survival. He left his leg standing straight up for a moment before fatigue overtook his frail body and forced his trembling leg back down. He twitched a few more times, as if he were breathing his last breaths (maybe he was? I don't know much about spider physiology), and finally slumped over in a heap, surrounded by the bubbles that had robbed him of his promising life.
It smelled like napalm in the morning, and our window sill was clean as hell. Rest in peace, Pete. Just like you did in life, you lazy asshole.