Unwelcome spiders cramp my style

I hate spiders. It’s the real deal, a full blown, in your gut loathing. I think that I have major arachnophobia. Major. To the point, where I become paralyzed with fear at the mere sight of a spider.

Once in my early 20s when I lived alone, I stayed up all night because there was a spider on the ceiling of my bedroom and I was too afraid to kill it. Okay, I know that there are some of you out there that would be really disappointed that I would even think to kill a spider, but with 100 percent certainty, I can assure you that I am so gripped with fear of these arachnids that there is no way in hell that I could consider catching it in a glass jar only to release it into nature. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t. My husband could, I cannot.

I’ve lived with this fear my entire life. Not sure where it came from or how it started, but it remains my monster in the closet.

Imagine my difficulty living in a small mountain town, which seems to breed spiders (small, and large). I come across them almost daily in my home. I go away for a weekend and my first question to my husband is “how many spiders did you see this weekend?” Typical response 4, 5. Found one in bed, urinated on one in the toilet. It’s enough to drive a sane woman, such as myself, to jump the rails onto the crazy train.

Sing it with me Ozzy, “I’m going off the rails down at crazy train…”

This brings me to my latest sighting. Last night, just before climbing into bed, I went to the bathroom, glanced into the bathtub and there it was. It had to have been 4-6 inches in length. The bulbous body stuck out like a sprained thumb. Naturally I screamed. Much like the screams you hear from slasher movie victims being chased through the dark forest by crazed killers wearing masks, wielding chainsaws, or hatchets as weapons. No joke – it was a blood curdling scream. Now mind you, my husband had no response to my scream. He figures by now what’s caused it, and for some reason, I think secretly he wants to teach me a lesson. The lesson? Take care of your own problems (spider problems that is)? I’m not sure, but I wasn’t happy being ignored. You can believe that.

I turned on the faucet water and desperately started throwing water into the tub, much like you would say if you were in a leaking boat, trying to keep the water from sinking you into the sea. As I said, we live in the mountains. The water comes out ICE COLD. I braved frost bite to conquer that creature.

For a moment I thought of taking a picture of the spider before it’s death…you know, for proof. But I thought it being camera shy, it might reach out with one if its arachnid legs, snatch the camera out of my hands, and smash it to the ground. Not a good idea — still paying for this smartphone.

The beast slowly drowned…..30 minutes slowly (Um, it really felt like 30 minutes) and washed down the drain. But, not before it conveniently reached its goal of terrorizing me in my quest for sleep. I silently laid in bed (after I put my cold hands on my husbands back! Take that!) wondering when it was going to come up from the bathtub drain, stronger AND bigger from it’s watering, sneak into our bedroom and choke me to death with all eight of its stringy legs. Plus every time I adjusted in bed I thought every touch of the sheet was a spider crawling into bed with me.


By the way, I googled the spider I found in the bathtub: Hobo Spider, originating in Europe, living wherever people live in Oregon. Not really aggressive (I disagree completely. Don’t think for a minute that he would not have killed me if he had the chance).

The point? Like I should talk about overcoming fears and blah blah blah…. No, there’s no point other than I hate spiders and next time my Effin Husband Better Damn Well Pay Attention.


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