The Spider Conspiracy

by Lisa Douglas

No kidding, as I just sat down to edit my freebies page with new freebies, I peer over my screen and see a creepy-crawly dangling from the chalkboard that hangs in our kitchen.

What!? What is this? Another one?

You see, just below that very spot, not but 3 days ago, there was a bigger, even creepier, crawlier one-of-it’s-kind along the edge of the wall/floor. Fast little guy, too, that had me literally on the tippiest of my tippy-toes, trying to navigate my body around it, so that I could fetch the dreaded spider spray, and kill it dead.

(I am such a green, natural-product using, organic person, but I’ve been there done that with the supposed ‘homeopathic’, ‘green’ way of fending off these guys, and it just doesn’t work. I need ’em deader than dead. Now. Like NOW now. This does the trick. Green? Not so much. But does it do the job? You betcha!)

Anyway, the one in the kitchen just now? Makes F-I-V-E in my house, in the past 2 weeks {shudders}

The first was almost in the same spot, near our air conditioner. Hubby never caught it.
The second, same night, was in the middle of the floor in the living room.
The third was our beloved big’un in the hallway/kitchen I killed 3 days ago.
The fourth, another biggie, in the hallway near the closet last night.
Fifth, just moments ago, same-ish hallway, off the kitchen.

Let me state this for the record, in case you may not already know this:

I. Am. Deathly. Afraid. Of. Spiders.

And where were four of the five located?

Within a couple feet of where I work on my computer, daily.

This is not at all anything I can contend with on a daily basis, alone, while hubby is a good 15 minutes away (sometimes further), doing his Army thing.


My response to such findings? Generally? I flip out. I become the person you hear about. Like full-blown squeaking, screaming, jumpin-up-and-down, looney-tunes, shouting a myriad of obsenities (I know, bad momma). All-the-while, I’m feeling my body, around my body, twitching, afraid one is on me, ooh I feel a hair it must be one kind of tingles all over.

I am a complete and total spaz around them.
I start yelling at them.
I start talking to them. “I’m going to get you!!! And you will be dead!!!
I start yelling at my husband, like it’s his fault. “Dammit, why did you not know he was coming, and run home to kill him before I saw him, damn you husband-person!!!
I start talking to myself. “Okay, Lisa, you can do this, you can walk by him to get the spray…. OHNOYOUCAN’T! He’s going to EAT YOUR FACE OFF, STAY BACK! AHHH!
I start getting mad at the military. “Son-of-a-biscuit Military! if they didn’t move us to this God-forsaken place with this piece of crap house, I wouldn’t be living in fear!!!”
I start getting mad at the kids. “If they’d only pick up their toys, there wouldn’t be spiders!” (Yeah, I know, rational, huh?)

There’s probably more, amidst twitching, crying, wanting my mother, etc. I just can’t think of it right now. I can barely type. Just writing about it has me sitting indian-style on my desk chair, afraid to touch the floor.

They’re on to me. I swear it. They’re plottin’ against me. And I’m gonna get ’em, too. Or move. I prefer the latter. Let ’em have this stinkin’ house. I want a new one anyway.

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