In that event I flee in search of a hero or a flamethrower. Recently I was working late on one of my authoring endeavors in the computer room. It was around eleven when I shut down the computer, swung around in the chair, and inhaled like an extra in a horror movie. Stomping across the floor and headed right for me was a spider the size of one of the creatures in Jurassic Park. I ran to the side of my own personal hero, my sleeping husband, Fred.
Jostling a foot I croaked, “I’m sorry to wake you. But…seriously…there is a humongous spider in the computer room. I’m surprised the trembling earth didn’t wake you.” Fred is well aware of my out-of-control terror whenever I encounter an air-breathing arthropod. He did not hesitate. He leapt from the bed and went into the bathroom for spider slaying equipment. I huddled in the bedroom doorway quaking with fear.
Fred came out armed with a can of hairspray and one little dinky shred of tissue. I shook my head, “That’s not going to cut it. You could slap a saddle on this thing.”
Undeterred he asked, “Where is it?”
I crossed the house heading for the still-lighted computer room. I managed to point through the doorway. The beast was as I had left it; hulking and leering from the middle of the room; its shadow twice as large as the creature itself. Fred blasted it with hairspray. It bucked and staggered. I shrieked. A couple of stabs at the floor with the tissue, and the hairy beast had been slain.
If I ever have to battle one of these eight legged foes alone, that unlucky spider is going to go into the spider hereafter sprayed as solid as Lot’s wife ever was; unscented, of course.