I hate spiders. Spiders are evil invertebrate predators and one is stalking me. I don’t like knowing its eight little legs and its eight creepy little eyes are up above me on the ceiling just biding its time until it silently drops down and attacks me. Ooooh – what if it is a female spider – that means potentially hundreds of even smaller of its kind are lurking up there until they burst out of their web sac and rappel down their silken strands toward my unsuspecting head. Where there’s one…who knows how many of its brethren are in hiding in the basement lurking among my laundry. Oh, ick.
I’m so freaked about this stupid spider that I won’t enter the living room where my beloved recliner waits for me; to do so means I must walk under where the spider waits up on its ceiling of opportunity.
Okay, Devoted Spouse has just reconnoitered and reports that he sees a nest, not just a spider. Well, now I’m ready to leave my abode. It’s fight or flight and I’m thinking flight sounds good. Devoted Spouse suggests a two-person spider destroying mission; me to approach from the upstairs loft area and stealthily attack with the only object a spider fears more than the sole of a shoe; my trusty broom. Then as I sweep the unsuspecting arachnid toward his or her destruction, Devoted Spouse will crush and dispose of the falling remains. Can I just say here for the record I’m not that confident in this plan?
Off to battle…