Which brings me to tonight. A couple weeks ago I notice a lot of cobwebs around the entry way to our house and began to clean them off with a broom. Then I saw it. He was a big one. I don't know what kind of spider and I don't really care to. He looked to be the size of a silver dollar (in reality probably only a quarter...maybe.) But he looked he could come at me like Jeff Daniels in Arachnophobia. So I did what any male head of household would do. I told my wife to go inside, grabbed a golf club and a filled squirt bottle of water and went after him. Does water kill spiders? I doubt it because after emptying the entire bottle in my front entry way he limped into a crack in the siding. I was pretty sure that he died later on though. Fast forward two weeks, my wife and I come back from a walk and she says "I thought you cleaned off all those cobwebs." "I did clean them," I said. "And killed this big spider too." "You mean that big spider?" she says pointing to the aforementioned arachnid perched on our light looking to pounce and potentially drain the blood of any future dinner guest. Well, its on now my friends. With a mixture of 60% panic, 20% queasy, 10% chilly willies, and 10% heebie jeebies I punched in the code for the garage and chose my weapons. All the while I have scenes from Predator playing in my head. You know that scene where Mac goes crazy and runs off after the predator talking to himself and saying "he's gonna have me some fun?"
As I'm emptying my squirt bottle into the spider's lair I realize this isn't good enough. I need to be sure this time. I need his body. So I return to garage to find something small enough to poke into the crack and get at his disgusting little form. The flat edge of my Sand Wedge? Too fat. A small piece of pipe from our Ladder Golf set? Still too big. By the way did I mention that we live next to a 55+ living complex? Like right next to it? There's literally about 45 windows aimed directly at the front of our house. Well, I'm on my second pair of hedge trimmers and have finally found something thin and sharp enough to jab into the crack above the garage. Now, as I'm repeatedly jabbing the shears into the crack, relishing in the crunching sensation of the tool hitting home, muttering "die you scum" under my breath I suddenly hear a small voice coming from behind me say "Mommy, what's he doing?" I stop and turn to find a girl resembling Cindy Lou Hoo and her twin sister staring at me wide-eyed as they walk up the sidewalk towards the rear entrance of the senior living center. Slightly out of breath I step off the ladder and lower the shears. The mom says, "I don't know honey, let's go visit Grandma" and they hurry inside. But even this moment of public embarassment can't steal the welling of pride I feel inside me. I have defended my homestead and vanquished my enemy. Triumphantly, I return inside to assure my maiden that all is quiet on the countryside and tonight's banquet of Trader Joe's orange chicken and rice can now be served.