Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Are Your Spidey Senses Tingling?

Okay, I admit it. I have a little problem with spiders. Yes, I know they’re good, veritable champions of the insect world who eat all the bad bugs. To this, I say, “Hurray for you! Please, just stay in your own habitat away from my personal space. My home. My bathtub. My car.” This probably makes me a terrible person, but there's something about those eight legs that creep me out. I’ve been told how wonderful spiders are many times by my husband who, upon hearing me scream, “Spider!” captures the little bugger and releases it into the wild (our back yard).

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Not long ago, I was a passenger in the back seat of my car along with my thirteen-year-old granddaughter, Madelyn, and her friend, Olivia. My husband (the spider lover) was driving. Our son (father of granddaughter) was riding shotgun. Madelyn yipped in alarm. A tiny orange spider was clinging to the passenger door. Tiny? Orange? Who cares? Shrieks of terror and foot stomping ensued (mine included).

But, I’m the alpha female . . . right? I had to save my girls. It’s entirely possible orange spiders are poisonous. I reached for the laminated map of Washington State and commenced whacking. One of the girls pointed at the passenger door. “You got it. It fell into the side pocket.” I handed her a tissue. “Make sure it’s dead.” She dipped the tissue into the pocket and lifted it up. It held the smushed remains of the orange spider. I said, “Throw it out the window.” Sweet, law-abiding Olivia said, “But that’s littering and Madelyn’s dad is a police officer!” I said, “Give it here.” She handed it over. Window down. No more spider.

And what were the two men in the front seat doing all this time? Despite the fact he received two glancing blows on the back of his head from the laminated map, hubby kept his eyes glued to the road. My son, after an amused glance at the hysterical females in the back seat, continued chatting with his father. He's my youngest and knows better than to mess with Mom.

Good thing I was on the job.

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