a case for hysteria, part 2

[This is a second installment in a series of two...  it won't make sense if you haven't read the intro... just below]

Incident 1. Day three in my new place (living on my own), I discover in my driveway a very large, very hairy tarantula.  As I was not in the possession of a nuclear bomb, I determined that the only thing big enough to ensure its absolute demise was the car.  So, I ran it over...  four times, back and forth (it is dangerous to underestimate these creatures, you must ensure total annihilation).  I then pulled the car into the garage, closed the garage door, lest the BFHS had Wile E. Coyote powers and could re inflate himself, and called N. in a fit of hysterics. I explained that it was very important that he come over right away... I had just killed a giant tarantula and I needed it removed from the driveway so that I might leave to attend to my evening plans. He did not believe me.  He thought that I was exaggerating. But after several minutes of hysterical screaming and crying patient discussion and explanation, he determined that it might be wise for him to stop by to ascertain the specifics of the situation himself.  Needless to say, it was a freaking tarantula squashed flat on my driveway (which I will admit did make for an impressive site.  It looked MUCH bigger flattened out) and N. sheepishly quickly removed the offending creature with a very long stick as I shouted obscenities and instructions from the second story window.

Family lesson learned: t'pon does not exaggerate about spiders.  the stupidity of cashiers and teenagers, yes.  spiders, no.

Incident 2. I used to love the *NY Times*, especially on Sunday morning.  That was, of course, until a fine Tuesday morning when I went out to my front porch to retrieve my paper only to find that a tarantula had taken up residence in the folds of the paper inside the plastic bag. I was fortunate enough to pick up the bag and paper by the closed end, thus the BFHS fell out, onto my foot.  People in Texas have reported hearing something on that day that they thought was the sound of the angel Ga*briel calling on all of the warriors of Go*d to defend his kingdom, but it was just me. FREAKING THE FUCK OUT!

Family Lesson Learned: No news is good news.  For weeks, the *NY Times* piled up on my front door step while I tried to get my subscription canceled. No crossword puzzle is worth that kind of trauma. On a related note, a few weeks later I was prevented from getting my mail for several days when I spotted a tarantula on the side of the house closest to the mailbox.

Incident 3. N. had spent the whole day cleaning the garage (i bet you can already see where this one is going), and at the end of the project, brought in an old pair of work boots that had been "living" in the garage for a few months. He placed the boots in our shared closet and we went on about the rest of our day.  Fast forward a few hours, N. and I were feeling a little frisky and he was playfully chasing me around the house.  I took a quick turn into our bathroom and the whole evening was shot to hell.  There in the middle of the floor, inside the house, is a BFHS.  I almost stepped on it, but instead jumped over it and dashed into the little room with the toilet, jumped on top of the toilet, slammed the door and began screaming like Whit*ney Houst*on crack rock.  I was hyperventilating, crying, having a full-on clinical panic attack on top of the poo-bowl.  The thing was barely alive... but alive nonetheless inside my house.  N. was forced to try to remove the BFHS and calm me down at the same time.  Around the corner (according to N. as I am locked in the water closet and unable to stop screaming) came Antone, the cat.  He saw the BFHS and began to bat at the thing which made the tarantula use what little evil life force it had left to jab his nasty-ass legs at everyone.  N. started screaming... because it is one thing to try to remove a nearly dead tarantula, it is another entirely to try to remove one that is pissed off and fighting back. But Antone kept batting it and flipping it over and it occurred to N. that the cat had been slowly beating this thing to death ever since he brought it in IN HIS FREAKING SHOE.  N. watched as the cat pummeled the last little bit of life out of the BHFS and then removed it from the house. Me?  Oh, I was still screaming on top of the toilet, because, have I mentioned, there was a tarantula IN MY HOUSE THAT I ALMOST STEPPED ON. I spent the rest of the night alternately rocking in the fetal position and cursing N. for bringing the foul beast into the house, all the while clutching my cat and feeding him tuna straight from the can.

Family Lesson learned:  That cat will ALWAYS have a place in this house. period.

Comments

[buffi]

I believe that standing on top of the toilet screaming IS the recommended action one should take when encountering a big, hairy, fucking, spider. Scientifically speaking, of course.

[Holly]

I agree. I cannot think of any better course of action when one encounters a BHFS, than to jump/hide/scream. The faster and the more hysterical, the better. They are evil incarnate.

BUT.... just wait. Butterbean will probably LOVE the damned creatures, if he is anything like most other little bug (and nasty spider) loving boys I know. I'm serious. If you want to avoid the BHFS's, you'd better MOVE or start training Butterbean to NOT like them.

P.S. Thanks for the great belly laugh you gave me just now.