The Bane of My Existence

I finally sold my soul and switched to the Blogger Beta - I still have no idea what that really means, other than it is absolute and final and there is no going back. Not sure how I really feel about this, but we'll see how it works out.

In other news, since moving into the new townhouse in August, I had yet to spot a spider in my room. I've seen a few on the main level, and seen the remnants of spider guts on the walls downstairs occasionally, usually followed by the discovery of spider guts on the bottom of one of my shoes (thanks Yanaj). But so far, they've had yet to crossover into my room, which is exactly how I prefer it.

Until this afternoon. I was coming to the end of a marathon which consisted of me rushing home from work and locking myself in my room for a week straight, while I crocheted like a grandma on crack and relived all the excitement of Prison Break: Season One. Oh, and I was wearing my purple muu muu. In short, it was one of the greatest weeks of my life, followed closely by Elvis Week 2006.

I'm not kidding; I barely spoke to my roommates for an entire week, because every spare moment was spent yelling at Michael and Lincoln, anticipating if they would ever break out. What's sad is that I've already seen it all, so I know how it turns out. But that didn't stop the old adrenaline flow.

Now that I've revealed how lame I am, let me continue with my spider story.

I bounded into my room with excitement this afternoon because I only had two episodes to go. My gleeful skip was stopped short when I saw a huge, hairy, crusty spider on the wall next to my TV. I didn't know what to do, because if I left it alone, it would just be taunting me, knowing that I could still see him and not concentrate on the Prison Break action. My super ultra long extended fly swatter was nowhere to be found, and there was no way I was going to get close enough with a shoe. So I did the unthinkable: I grabbed the closest piece of clothing (which happened to be my hand-made-puffy-painted Elvis Week 2006 tank top) and used a towel-whipping motion accompanied by a blood-curtling scream in the general direction of the huge, hairy, crusty spider.

If you ask me what happened next, I can't tell you for sure. All I know is that somehow the curled up body of the huge, hairy, crusty spider came hurtling back at me and stuck to my shirt. I just about vomited on myself out of fear. I bent over at the waist and started smacking myself in the chest and stomach, screaming all the while and hopping from foot to foot. Don't ask me why I was hopping - it's kind of like the time I went bungee jumping and held my nose as I jumped. I guess it was just instinct.

My point is this: I hate spiders more than just about anything else in the world. And clearly, I am not equipped to handle such situations. Kind of like how I'm clearly not ready to handle having kids of my own. It's not a good sign when a 3-month old baby spits up on you, and your first reaction is to gag and hold the kid in front of you, tipped forward so she'll continue puking on the brand new carpet instead of on your arm. Hypothetically.

And it didn't help matters when a few minutes later, I was comfortably situated in my bed, nestled between my Elvis and Russell Crowe pillows, when what to my wandering eye did appear? Another huge, hairy, crusty spider crawling towards my face. Right towards my face. So I did what any normal, sane person wearing a purple muu muu would do: I screamed, bolted out of bed, ran out of the room and slammed the door behind me.

Something tells me I'll be sleeping on the couch tonight.

Feliz Navidad Total: 18
Rocky Balboa Countdown: 17 days