Early Saturday morning, I was woken from my sleep by a tickling along my lip. Half-asleep, I wiped across my face with my fingers and flicked them aside.
There was something there.
It took about two seconds for my brain to parse this, and the 2+2 connection was as good as a half gallon of Espresso dumped into my bloodstream via IV.
SOMETHING WAS ALMOST IN MY MOUTH.
SOMETHING ALIVE.
I look at the floor and find the tiny crumpled corpse of a spider, about the size of a ladybug. OMFG, the stories about people eating 8 spiders a year are TRUE. It is 5 AM. Well, hell, I don’t really need more than four hours of sleep anyway.
Mommybrain plus one beer come through for me on Saturday and Sunday night, and I completely forget my trauma. And then it is Monday.
My hubby asked me to do some laundry; fair enough, it was piling up. I ran three loads this day, one of jeans, one of darks, and one of blankets. I figured we were good to go… as long as he didn’t need underwear. So I shot him a quick text. Sure enough, he needed underwear.
I descended to the basement yet again for a final go, and begin to toss underwear and towels into the basin. Suddenly, as I lift one towel, a large, fuzzy black thing catches my attention.
That is the biggest piece of lint I have ever seen. It’s roughly the size of a jumbo raisin, working its way up to peanut. With one hand holding the towel, I begin to reach with my other to pluck this fluff off my white towel.
Wait.
Legs?
Holy hell, it’s a spider. All lumped up like a spider corpse. That’s the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in this house. I’m so glad it’s de–fuck.
The spider begins to wave his legs in the air like he’s about to throw down with me. It’s a frickin’ LIVE spider, wiggling his legs like immense tentacles of a kraken.
I am frozen immobile for three seconds while my mind tries to thaw enough to decide whether to fight or flight. I swallow the urge to shriek like the girl I am.
The spider moves. Possibly in anticipation of dinner.
FIGHT, MOFO!
I drop the towel, folding it over on itself, and throw more laundry on top of it. I then proceed to stomp on the laundry for good measure. About 17 times. My goosebumps have goosebumps. I am twitching like I’m on my way to a grand mal seizure.
Now it’s flight time.
I slam the laundry room door, run up the stairs, and calmly text my husband that there’s a HUGE ASS SPIDER in the MOTHEREFFIN’ LAUNDRY ROOM and if he wants clean underwear that badly, he’ll have to do it himself.
Two minutes later, he calls. I explain the scenario and the approximate size of the spider.
Him: Ooh, was it one of those jumping spiders?
Me: …
Him: Yeah, once or twice I saw these really big spiders in the basement, and when I went to kill them, they jumped at me! And I was like, ‘Aaah!’
Me: … . o O ( Oh god, it’s worse than I thought. )
I decide to relocate to the second floor of the house. You know. Just in case.
My husband comes home and arms himself with a pair of sneakers as he heads down to the basement and proceeds to pick through the pile of laundry, throwing it into the wash.
Me (yelling at him from the second floor upstairs landing cause I won’t come down): Is it dead?
Him: Where is it?
Me (still yelling): On a white towel in front of the washer.
Him: I don’t see it.
I cautiously make my way down to the first floor, wishing I had a flame thrower.
Me: IT HAS TO BE THERE!
Him: Nope, unless I’m blind.
Me: You better hope you are! Otherwise I’m never doing laundry again.
Him: Yes you are.
Me: No, I’m not. He’s probably gone to plot revenge.
All I can think about how there’s this giant possibly aggressive jumping spider who survived my attempts to murder him and who is now on the loose. I wonder if my insurance covers spider-related arson.
Hubby wanted to watch Game of Thrones. In the man-cave. I objected. Quite vociferously, I might add. We compromise on watching Game of Thrones in the man-cave while armed with a can of hairspray and a match. One episode, however, is all I can stand, cause my skin is still crawling.
As we pack up and begin to head up stairs, I stop.
There it is.
Not only did the spider survive my attempts to slay it, it crawled out of the laundry room and traversed half a flight of stairs to hide and exact its revenge. I have the spider that survived the space trip from Planet Krypton in my basement, and it’s not only indestructible, it’s nefariously Evil. Blocking our escape.
Hubby: Yeah, it is one of those guys that jumped at me in the garage!
Me: SHUTTHEFUCKUPANDKILLITNOW.
I have already vowed I will never enter the garage again.
My husband justifies my marriage to him and puts on his shoes again to do battle with the beast, which survives three further attempts to be stomped on. Directly. In a last-ditch effort, hubby scoops it up with a wad of Kleenex and tosses it into the toilet.
I am certain that a little trip to the sewer is no big deal for a spider that is impervious to death by crushing. No doubt it will continue to thrive and grow, and possibly eat sewer gators someday. Hopefully by the time it’s ready to wreak havoc on the surface, I’ll have moved. Somewhere far, far away.
Spiders, I would be happy to leave you guys alone. You know, if you stuck to a corner and stayed out of my way, and off my face, and didn’t try to eat me while I was doing laundry.
I didn’t see a single spider all winter long. Now it’s nice outside, and they’re In. My. House. And they’re effing huge.
And hungry.
{This ‘Best of Blunt Moms’ post was first published in June 2014}