Okay look. I hate spiders. I do. They freak me the fuck out. Give me a snake any day over a creepy crawly hairy freaky
big little spider.
Which brings me to the most horrible thing ever to happen to me. Well, most horrible thing ever to happen to me today.
I had gone grocery shopping. I was a good momma. I did my duty and even used my recycled shopping bags. I get home and Fishdog comes out to help me unload the groceries. Nice guy, right?
Don’t let those manners fool you. My husband is anything but nice. He is, in fact, responsible for the most horrible thing ever to happen to me today.
We had taken our first load of bags in. I stepped over to the mailbox. I open the mailbox and put my hand inside. No mail. I close the mailbox. Fishdog is standing next to me. He says, “Already got it and hey watch out for the spider that’s living in there.”
I didn’t hear him correctly. Right? Cuz that would mean he had let me stick my hand inside the mailbox inhabited by a living arachnid. So I glance over at the mailbox and this is what I saw:
not actual spider. In reality not actual size either. But whatever.
This big fucking nasty hairy leg creeped its way out of the mailbox. I went into shock. I started screaming like a big old baby. I ran into the house and called Fishdog some names that I know would make a marine blush.
IT WAS IN THERE WITH MY HAND. It touched me. I know it did.
As a matter of fact, it’s still on me. I can feel it.
I had a Ricky Bobby moment. I stripped down to my underwear and yelled, “Sarah Palin work your moose-huntin’ magic and shoot that hairy beast! If you do, I swear I’ll vote for you.”
How could my husband, the man who supposedly loves me, let me stick my hand in a veritable nest of tarantulas? Why didn’t he kill the spider before I ever knew it was there? I may never be able to check the mail again.
So then I
demanded asked Fishdog, kill that fucking thing before I die a little more inside Would you kindly do away with that venomous and deadly creature?
Instead of killing it, he set it free.
Folks, this is not the PETA headquarters. We kill spiders here. I don’t care if they eat mosquitoes or lay golden eggs. If you’re a spider, you get killed in my house. That’s the understood rule. Or at least it has always been…until now.
He let the fucker go in the front yard. And I know it’s working its way back to the mailbox because it laid 1 million-billion-katrillion baby spider eggs in there and it wants to be present when they are born and begin their take over of Chez Francis.
And that folks, is the most horrible thing ever to happen to me. Today.