We interrupt your regularly scheduled Saturday Jane to bring you this news update:
So tonight I’m in my kitchen, doing all of the things that you’re required to do in your kitchen now and again. There was some cooking happening, and some dishwashing. It was all very domestic, I assure you, and at no point did I squirt soap onto the sponge and squeeze the sponge reflexively even though I was not holding it over the sink, getting puddles of sponge water all over the floor. I had rigged Taylor’s IPod player to play Ingrid Michaelson on repeat, and I was having a jolly good time.
Suddenly, I felt a slight tickling on my arm. I looked down.
There was a tiny spider.
Tiny spiders don’t phase me. I mashed it. Sorry, spider-lovers, but even though tiny spiders don’t wig me out, they have the potential to grow into big spiders. Big crunchy spiders. Big black crunchy spiders that crawl up your nose when you’re asleep and eat the parts of your brain that remember South American countries and how to control your bladder.
I would like to keep my grey matter intact, thankyewverymuch.
So yeah, I mashed the little spider and, out of impulse, looked up. Two more little spiders were crawling around near the light fixture. I glared at them disapprovingly. And then I realized that there weren’t two spiders, there were four. Only there weren’t four, there were nine. Only there weren’t nine, there were twenty and AAAGHSPIDERSEVERYWHERESPIDERSAAAAAAAGH.
From the safety of the living room, I could hear the brussel sprouts on the stove sizzling. I couldn’t keep out of the kitchen for long. Stuff would burn in there! My stuff! I went for my trusty spider-slayin’ shoe, a red sneaker that Taylor left here over the summer. I squared my shoulders and pretended that I was Batgirl.
I dashed madly into the kitchen, flailing wildly, brandishing the shoe at the ceiling, but it was no use. I was too short. In vain, I tried to use a long-handled spoon, and then a spatula. The spiders clung to the ceiling.
“Do you feel a draft?” they said to each other in their evil little spider voices. “I feel a draft.”
If my angry looks were lasers, there would be holes in my roof.
I consulted Twitter, and after a few suggestions from Brittney involving fire and tiny vampiric stakes, I decided to go MacGuyver on the situation.
This where Taylor, reading my blog on a quiet Wednesday morning, reels in terror. See, between the two of us, Taylor has all the good, sensible ideas. When it’s time to do taxes, Taylor’s all like, “Well, let’s sit down and go over our receipts.” I’m all like “QUICK, WE’LL TRAIN A CIRCUS CAT TO JUGGLE NUMBERS.” Taylor sees unreachable spiders on the ceiling, and he goes to get a chair to stand on.
I see unreachable spiders on the ceiling and my first impulse is to tie a shoe to a broom.
This post is going to go online at 8:00 AM. At 8:07, I am going to stop and listen to see if I can hear Taylor’s disgruntled sigh from three towns over.
I took my spider-slayin’ shoe and used the laces to lash it firmly to the end of the broom handle. It reminded me of a toilet plunger, only instead of the plungey part there was a size 11 instrument of arachnoid destruction. I gave the seething little throngs of spiders a final moment to savor their creepy little lives.
And then I whanged my shoe-broom on the ceiling with furious abandon.
Spiders fell like rain. I howled and tried to brush them off while maintaining my whang-pace. It was like Braveheart or something. I was Gandalf, or John McClane. I was motherfrickin’ Ripley all up in my kitchen,believe it or not, screaming an incoherent string of creative cusses while the spiders experienced a Arachnoclypse of epic proportions. I only stopped when I nearly disengaged the lighting fixture from the ceiling.
TAYLOR: THE LIGHTING FIXTURE IS OKAY. I JUST WANT TO REITERATE THAT. IT IS OKAY. YOU CAN UNCLENCH YOUR FISTS AND UNFURROW YOUR FOREHEAD. I HAVE NOT BROKEN ANYTHING.
So the battle is over, for now. I have the sneaking suspicion that a spider egg sac hatched somewhere in our kitchen and when that happens, aren’t there like five hundred spider babies? That means that there are four hundred and eighty left. Maybe they crawled outside, where they could live their spidery lives in peace, telling tales of the behemoth and her mighty Hell Sword© that destroyed so many of their kin. Maybe they scurried down into the cracks of our floor, waiting for revenge.
Man. Spiders and I.
I think I got an arch nemesis.