I have a phone that’s smarter than I am. Mostly, I bought it to play Angry Birds, and to manage things here on Blue Speckled Pup while I’m out and about. As most smart phone owners know, the brilliant little things suck power like a frat boy drinks cheap beer through a funnel, so I have to plug mine in pretty much every night. To facilitate actually remembering to take my phone with me when I leave the house for school in the morning, I plug it into an outlet just outside my bathroom door, ensuring that, provided I don’t step on it and crush the thing to a useless state, I’m not going to forget to toss it in my purse the next day.
This morning, I remembered my phone at a moment when I was wearing nothing but a towel (on my head) and bent to unplug it and pack it up before I forgot, which was highly possible given my morning checklist and the fact that I sleep very poorly on school nights. As I reached for my phone, something moved beside it. I leaned a little closer, trying to discern what bit of lint was rolling in the air kicking out of the furnace vent.
I yelped. Then I swore. It was a spider: a bloody big spider, the hairy, swift kind with armour piercing doom fangs that tends to stick to living in my laundry room and terrorizing me while I try to separate the lights from the darks. Downstairs, my immediate response is to grab my big red can of spider killer, but upstairs I won’t spray pesticides because of Leroy and Sherman. At first I thought the stupid neighbours were playing the bongos at inappropriate times of day again, but then I realized the uneven staccato drummed from my own startled heart.
I cannot squish bugs. First, the sound makes me want to ralph, and second, then there are bits of spider and smears of the goop inside a spider (hemolymph, if we want to get all scientific) smeared on the floor and whatever shoe I’ve snatched to carry out the execution. Clearly, another solution was in order.
First, I put on The Electrician’s housecoat to protect all my important parts from the eight-legged menace. Why The Electrician’s housecoat? Are you kidding? I wasn’t going to risk a spider touching mine! Then, girding my loins and murmuring a prayer to St. Nastia, patron saint of household wildlife, I shooed the spider into the dustpan with a little hand broom. In one fluid motion (pun intended) I dropped him in the toilet bowl, flung down the lid to prevent escape, and punched the flush button with gusto.
Then I breathed for the first time in just over forty six seconds.
I was so proud of myself for effectively dealing with the icky spider by sending him to what my friend, who recently bade a much-loved fish goodbye, refers to as Flushing Meadows Cemetery. Like all the weird stuff in my life, I planned to write a blog post to explain just how courageous I was in disposing of my uninvited houseguest. I imagined blazing my brave deed across my own little piece of internet real estate, which is roughly the size of the eyetooth on the lesser Columbian fruit bat. Victory was sweet.
Right before I had to leave the house, I popped into the bathroom as I always do to bid my house a liquid farewell. There, completely unexpectedly, was the spider, calming skating around the surface of the water. By the time I saw him, I’d already dropped trou, and was feeling very vulnerable indeed. Unperturbed by his brush with death, the cheeky bugger grinned up at me and waved. Well, sort of. I don’t think he was necessarily grinning, per se. That may have been a menacing grimace intended to spark even deeper fear into my lily liver.
I did what any resourceful woman in my situation would do: I wadded up a few squares of toilet paper, and I dropped it directly on top of the spider. That sunk his battleship, but good. Then I pushed the “solids” button for a hearty flush of my dual flush toilet. For good measure, I flushed it one more time.
And then I waited to pee until I got to work this morning.
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