The Terrible Awful

Ok this isn't the real Terrible Awful (go read The Help if you haven't yet. Right now), but it is A terrible awful. And I've been paranoid ever since.

Yesterday morning I was blow-drying my hair. You know. Doo-doo, just a-blow-dryin my wet hairs, doo-doo.... when I see something on the floor a few inches from my toes. I wasn't sure if it was a some weeds I'd tracked in from outside, or something more sinister. So, naturally, I give it a little blow with my dryer. IT MOVED. IT MOVED THOSE GODFORSAKEN EIGHT LEGS.

I shouted. But my in the adjacent room didn't wake up, because my voice lacks the decibel volume of a KISS concert. I flatter myself that I usually don't startle too easily, but spiders have never been my thing. They always make me feel, in the eloquent words of Shakespeare, "Icky."**

**Not the words of Shakespeare.

I finish up my wet section and then decide I can delay it no longer. Something must be done about this spider. I grab a trusty can of Paul Mitchell hairspray. It's a cure-all. Flyaway? Loose earring stems? Wrinkles? Oh yeah. Spray some stuff on that. I corner him at the base of my garbage can. Sucker's got no chance. I spray him like my life depends on it, extending my arm while simultaneously retracting every other cell in my body.

Only after I'm done spraying do I realize I've been shouting the entire time. [I prefer not to use the verb 'scream,' thank you.] But then I realize. "Oh. You just used the heat seal spray. Maybe something more firm with a higher alcohol content will work better. Double Tap." So I grab my Freeze and Shine. Let me tell you. If I was going to die by hairspray, I'm certain Freeze and Shine would be the weapon of choice for any assailant. I gave him another 5 good, hearty sprays. He was all curled up and dead. But no way was I going to touch him. I have a husband for that.

So I finish getting ready, go in to wake up my husband and then run out the door to work. I'll make The Beard clean him up later. Or maybs vacuum him. Both valid options that do not include me getting near him at all.

(Also. Why am I calling it a him? Anthropomorphizing as a consequence of my guilt? Probably.)

I come home from work. Do my thing.

My thing: Just Dance, maybe a chore on a good day, more Just Dance, reading fashion blogs, making dinner, watching The Office.

Then later I go into my room to show Ryan where he is so he can clean him up.

HE'S NOT THERE. HE'S NOT THERE!!!!!!! I gave that spider a full 90 seconds of cosmetic torture, effectively sealing him to the carpet and garbage can base. But he lived through it the little b_____d. I freaked out. Somewhere in my house, probably in my room, is a large brown spider (not a Brown Recluse, thanks) is still alive and 100% pissed at me. I freaked. The Beard starts lecturing me about killing spiders appropriately. Like I'd ever do that. I felt like a target in my own home. This guy was coming for me.

A few hours later, after constant shoe-wearing, I went into my room to change into my pjs and the little bugger had the nerve to stand at the scene of the crime. I obviously shouted like a crazy person till the Beard came in and promptly squished him, gingerly sliding him onto a paper and into my garbage can.

Ew. I didn't take that garbage can out. Just realizing that now. Either his corpse is in there haunting me or he has risen once again like the Rasputin of spiders, and is slowly working his way back onto my carpet, waiting for my fleshy, warm, bare feet.

1 Spider was harmed in the making of this blog post.