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So last week I was taking a shower. I was washing my hair and just generally trying to relax. Then I reached down for my little bath puff thing, and out of it flew this little spider. I was like, I WAS IN THE SHOWER WITH A SPIDER WITH MY EYES CLOSED AAAAAAAGGGHHH.
So what do I do. Normally in these situations, I scream for Jake, and he comes with a cup and rescues the eight-legged monster, and all is well, and I relax. With no Jake to call on, I had to take matters into my own hands. Around here we have a pretty strict remove-don't-kill policy. But with no Jake, that spider was marked for death. I grabbed the shower head with the super convenient hose, and hosed that thing right down the drain. I watched for a couple of minutes as water streamed down, and began to feel safe again. Guilty, but safe. Alas, a couple of minutes later, I saw tiny legs curl up from the underside of the drain cover, hanging on for dear life. More guilt, but also more panic! I got serious and turned on the power jets on the shower head, and targeted the drain. Those fucking legs HUNG ON. Finally I rinsed the conditioned out of my hair, and a nice foamy sea of that finally forced the spider to succumb. I finished my shower quickly, with my eyes fixed on the drain of doom.
The rest of the night I felt uneasy. As though word of the little spider's death was spreading through the arachnid world, and all that spider's tens of millions of cousins were headed my way to avenge the death of him/her. I debated with myself over which would be worse: attacked by just one gigantic cousin spider, or attacked by ten million little cousin spiders. With these thoughts in my head I fell asleep.
It usually takes about a year for me to forget a place where I've seen a spider. So for a while, I will think of the upstairs shower as the Spider Shower, and my eyes will fall suspiciously on the drain every time I go near it. I have a dread that one day the spider will return in zombie form and seek its revenge.
I want to move.
So what do I do. Normally in these situations, I scream for Jake, and he comes with a cup and rescues the eight-legged monster, and all is well, and I relax. With no Jake to call on, I had to take matters into my own hands. Around here we have a pretty strict remove-don't-kill policy. But with no Jake, that spider was marked for death. I grabbed the shower head with the super convenient hose, and hosed that thing right down the drain. I watched for a couple of minutes as water streamed down, and began to feel safe again. Guilty, but safe. Alas, a couple of minutes later, I saw tiny legs curl up from the underside of the drain cover, hanging on for dear life. More guilt, but also more panic! I got serious and turned on the power jets on the shower head, and targeted the drain. Those fucking legs HUNG ON. Finally I rinsed the conditioned out of my hair, and a nice foamy sea of that finally forced the spider to succumb. I finished my shower quickly, with my eyes fixed on the drain of doom.
The rest of the night I felt uneasy. As though word of the little spider's death was spreading through the arachnid world, and all that spider's tens of millions of cousins were headed my way to avenge the death of him/her. I debated with myself over which would be worse: attacked by just one gigantic cousin spider, or attacked by ten million little cousin spiders. With these thoughts in my head I fell asleep.
It usually takes about a year for me to forget a place where I've seen a spider. So for a while, I will think of the upstairs shower as the Spider Shower, and my eyes will fall suspiciously on the drain every time I go near it. I have a dread that one day the spider will return in zombie form and seek its revenge.
I want to move.
