The fall of the house of spider

There's nothing like coming home after a long weekend of wandering the streets of Manhattan only to find that an enormous spider [along with its egg sack] has taken up residence on your front door. Now I'm not talking about a daddy longlegs or even a widow. These types of spiders, to use the wording of my dear friend T., "Belong in a laboratory!"

People always laugh when they find out that I'm, how should I say, terrified of spiders. Again, I'm not talking about the friendly household spiders which I can ignore completely or kill without any difficulty. I'm talking about monsters. Big, hairy monsters with the ability to steal your firstborn if you turned away for just a second. See what I mean?

So there I am, fresh off the plane from the Isle of Manhattan, ears needing a good pop, sinuses needing a good vacuum, body needing a good rinsing and soul needing a good drink. I'm walking towards my front door, key in hand, with T. walking up behind me, when I catch a glimpse of something big, dark and hairy very near my outstretched hand. Having lived in the House That Spiders Built for over a year now, I've learned that it's best to jump first and allow the eyes to focus second. I'm convinced this [now] instinctual behavior is the only way I've avoided having one of these beasts actually come in contact with my skin.

After the initial jump and recognition of the monster, the next 15 minutes or so of utter freak out is a blur. There was a lot of screaming, nervous laughter, jumping around on one foot, and bizarre plans of attack. I do remember that T. was as much of a basket case as I was. At one point I said, "You and me combined equal one big, festering pussy." [And for those of you who don't know, no man likes hearing this!]

The final plan of attack was this: I would spray it with the wasp spray--which stays outdoors for this very reason--and when it's stunned and on the ground, T. will whack the hell out of it with the broom. Finally, between the two of us, we found enough of one teste to actually go ahead with the plan. T. stood behind me with the broom, ready to whack the hell out of it, while I held the can of wasp spray and started dousing the entire door, occasionally hitting the target. Normally, you can hear these beasts cry in pain when they're hit with the spray, but this one just winced a little and fell to the ground. T. attacked it with the broom while I was, by that point, on the other side of porch yelling, "Whack it again! It's not dead! Smash the babies! Kill it!"

Did I mention this was happening at about 11:30 p.m. on a Sunday night? The neighbors must love me.

After the twenty minutes it took to kill the monster, it was off to the bar! When one attacks a monster like that and lives to tell the tale, a celebration is in order.