Sunday, August 7, 2011

Be warned, eight legged creatures

My name is Rebecca and I am a spider murderer.

I am.

The manfriend is folding clothes that I washed for him a week ago. (Why didn't I fold them and put them away you ask, well, he's got to be responsible for something). It's once again time to wash some of the clothes that have become mountains around the house.

After tossing the darks that belong to me into the machine, I reach for the closest pile of clothes, hoping not to topple it on top of me. My hand moves a shirt.

"Can all of these be washed?" (Sometimes one wearing doesn't constitute dirty).

Manfriend: "Yeah, probably."

"Everything? Okay, I'll- crap that's a big spider."

Out from under the manfriend's shirt that I nudged runs a huge spider. HUGE. Like, the size of my hand. Alright, alright, I'm exaggerating. The size of my palm. Better? It's still an impressively sized spider...and one that blends in too well with the brown carpet!

The creature stands there, paused next to a belt fallen on the ground.  I blend in.  You can't see me if I don't move.  I'll just stand right here and you'll lose me.  Hah!  He is taunting me with his big brown eyes and long evil legs.

"Huh? That is a big spider..." the manfriend observes from a safe distance but does not offer to come to the rescue.

That's fine, that's fine. I am not scared of spiders (although having an aggressive wolf spider** in the Amazon walk all over me for half an hour-okay, ten minutes-could qualify me to have a complex about spiders).  At least he's not furry.
The one who wanted to visit in the Amazon
"Do you need me-" my gallant knight starts.

"I'll do it. This is why God invented shoes," I say swiping the closest pair of flip flops. A few seconds and a few whaps later, and the spider is done for. The little bugger tried to run from me!

Wide-eyed, the manfriend stares. "You're a spider murderer". It's said soft, accusingly*.

Uhm, yep.

"Did you want me to lovingly pick it up and carry it outside? That's not what shoes are for," I'm attempting to gingerly pick up the spider remains.

"That's what a cup is for." Still accusing.

I turn and look at him.

Nope. Not me. Not my cups. Outside in nature, I do not kill spiders unless I provoked.  Read: they are touching me. But here, inside, in my space, insects and arachnids die. No empathy, no remorse. If they can stick to their space, there's is no reason to hurt them.  They have their own special role.  But in my space, oh no you don't.

So I'll say it loud and clear (spiders, let this be your warning): I am a cold hearted spider murderer. And I'm not ashamed of it.

*The Russian considers me to be cold.  I must be frigid.

**Wolf spiders are highly venomous and aggressive.  In the Amazon, it's highly likely I would have been very sick and/or die from a bite.  Plus, that guy was big...and furry...and ugly.

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