Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Just call me "The Flash"

I am not sure how to start this blog entry. I feel like typing "My neighbors might have seen my boobs" is just a little blunt and well, out of character for my blog. Still I cannot think of another way to start off this story, so here it is:

My neighbors might have seen my boobs. I have no doubt they heard me screaming like a horror movie victim. Up until the screaming boob flashing, Trae and I were cleaning the garage. After living in our house for a year, the garage still remains car-less. You can see the floor and it isn't piled with junk; it is just that what is in the garage lives in the middle of the floor. We have a few shelves to put things on, but they are plastic and flimsy. Also, spiders have taken over every inch of the garage that can support a web. I went to put miracle grow dirt around a tree the other day and had to give up the task because a spider had sealed the bag with a thin, silky web. I normally would have taken over the organization of the garage, but my inherent fear of spiders, passed down to me by my mother, kept me from sweeping and organizing.

With my husband, the spider slayer armed with spray poison, I felt confident that together we could conquer the garage. We started off strong; sweeping and pulling out the contents of the garage. Cobweb clad ladder and tools, looking like downtrodden soldiers weary from the spider war, lined the driveway. We got sidetracked when we pulled out a box of old bills, culled to be shredded when we first moved into our house. Our shredder, small and bought during a super sale, had died about eight months ago. Since the shredder's demise, the box had sat in the garage behind power screwdrivers and tool bags.

Genius struck us: We have a fire pit and paper burns. Soon after being struck, we had a fire going with old bills curling and blacking under the heat. Trae tended the fire (read: poked it with a stick) while I swept out the garage. After getting the garage swept out, I was unsure of where to continue. After all, a lot of our stuff was still contaminated with spiders, and I wasn't willing to go kamikaze style into battle.

Instead I decided to trim some unruly bushes that are up against the fence. The bushes were one of the last "ugly" elements left in the yard. Not a lot of daylight was left, but I still forged ahead getting half of the bushes trimmed down with our power trimmer before calling it a night. I raked up the bush carnage, and then I looked towards Trae to ask him how the fire was going.

That is when I saw him  perched on my shoulder. I swear one of his eight legs was waving at me while he was flashing a smile that read "Welcome to your death." I screamed. Not a tiny scream, not a squeal, not a stub my toe scream, but a from the soul, terrified for my life scream. At the same time I frantically tried to unzip my jacket. When my fingers fumbled on the zipper, I proceeded to rip off my jacket, taking my tank top with it.  I threw my clothes with the strength and terror a quarterback about ready to get sacked. While my clothes were flying through the air, I ran, screaming, into the garage stripping my bra off, convinced the voracious eight-legged killer had survived the stripping.

Trae, unaware of how close his wife had come to dying, wandered into the garage with a curious look on his face. My response to his uncaring ways was to scream, "CHECK MY BODY FOR THE KILLER SPIDER!! HELP ME!!" Laughter escaped my husband's lips as he checked my hair, back, and neck while my bra dangled on my shoulder.  Frozen with fear, I stood there insisting he check and recheck for the deadly spider. With the humor wearing off, Trae went to check my clothes and after declaring my tank top spider free, he threw it towards me. Knowing that spiders are James Bond like, I knew that despite being declared killer free that spider could and would have found a way onto that tank top. The tank top hit my side, causing me to simultaneously scream and run into the house. 

I am sure that after the ordeal, which as you can tell I survived, our position as the odd neighbors has been solidified. I don't think you can get away with screaming and stripping and not be labeled as "oh, that couple." In closing, I guess I should confess that the spider on my shoulder was in reality a daddy long legs spider; however, I am still convinced that the daddy long leg on my shoulder was mutated killer out to get me. 

My artistic skill: a rendition of my shoulder spider

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