Chuffed
I want you all to share in my triumph.
The day before yesterday I heard a yelp from the bathroom. Suspecting something was dreadfully awry I took the stairs in a brisker fashion than usual (only one at a time though; I have found that my knees are no longer able to fight against gravity and gradient in the manner they once did and I wanted my arrival to be more the majesterial one and less the "England fast bowler breaking down on pre-test warm-up gentle run-in" stylee). I arrived and pushed the door open expecting to see a despairing and semi-naked, ordure soaked partner in dire need of physical assistance. Instead she pointed at the bottom of the bath panel and wailed "Spider! I'm not moving until it does."
I have to admit here that when it comes to arachnids I am of the opinion that they all want to dead me bad via making me a jessie, big girl's blouse, fashion designer, tart and a wuss. However I am the only man in a house of women who are even bigger screeching lady-boys than I am when it comes to scuttling things so, I find that I have to bottle it and sweat and act like the joint tenant I really am.
The spider in question was one of those almost invisible ones of about an inch across that usually lurk in the corner of the bathroom ceiling for months deliberately dropping lacewing carcasses into the forest of shampoo and conditioner bottles directly below . It wasn't a harvester; the ones with the little round bodies that only have six legs so aren't really spiders, meaning that I can deal with them easily by picking them up in my cupped hand. Likewise it wasn't a cranefly; something else I have no trouble picking up for some reason. Although its hair-like legs and miniscule body meant it proved no tangible threat to me and probably couldn't make me dead, it still possessed the requisite eight legs and capacity for speed that are the usual reasons for my reticence. I was quickly realising that I would have to be decisive. Sensing that the bathroom was unusually bereft of suitable vessels with which to capture the creature I was forced to make a decision. I would have to pick it up. With my bare hands. A spider.
So I did. I gently cupped my hand over it and headed for the door. Then I did a girly thing because the bastard moved. In a moment of pure comedy reflex I jerked my hand and sent the unfortunate beast to the floor. "Uhhheerrr - what did you do that for?" "Shit, where is it?" "Get it out!" There it was, on the carpet, scuttling. I managed to repeat the routine, more efficiently this time, resisting the urge to flinch when I felt it move. I heroically transported it downstairs and ejected it onto the front path. I remounted the stairs to claim the gleeful thanks and inevitable promise of sexual favours that would undoubtedly be on offer after proving myself in such a dominant and unflinchingly masculine manner.
Not a word. Not a single bloody word of gratitude. What the hell has a man got to do?
The day before yesterday I heard a yelp from the bathroom. Suspecting something was dreadfully awry I took the stairs in a brisker fashion than usual (only one at a time though; I have found that my knees are no longer able to fight against gravity and gradient in the manner they once did and I wanted my arrival to be more the majesterial one and less the "England fast bowler breaking down on pre-test warm-up gentle run-in" stylee). I arrived and pushed the door open expecting to see a despairing and semi-naked, ordure soaked partner in dire need of physical assistance. Instead she pointed at the bottom of the bath panel and wailed "Spider! I'm not moving until it does."
I have to admit here that when it comes to arachnids I am of the opinion that they all want to dead me bad via making me a jessie, big girl's blouse, fashion designer, tart and a wuss. However I am the only man in a house of women who are even bigger screeching lady-boys than I am when it comes to scuttling things so, I find that I have to bottle it and sweat and act like the joint tenant I really am.
The spider in question was one of those almost invisible ones of about an inch across that usually lurk in the corner of the bathroom ceiling for months deliberately dropping lacewing carcasses into the forest of shampoo and conditioner bottles directly below . It wasn't a harvester; the ones with the little round bodies that only have six legs so aren't really spiders, meaning that I can deal with them easily by picking them up in my cupped hand. Likewise it wasn't a cranefly; something else I have no trouble picking up for some reason. Although its hair-like legs and miniscule body meant it proved no tangible threat to me and probably couldn't make me dead, it still possessed the requisite eight legs and capacity for speed that are the usual reasons for my reticence. I was quickly realising that I would have to be decisive. Sensing that the bathroom was unusually bereft of suitable vessels with which to capture the creature I was forced to make a decision. I would have to pick it up. With my bare hands. A spider.
So I did. I gently cupped my hand over it and headed for the door. Then I did a girly thing because the bastard moved. In a moment of pure comedy reflex I jerked my hand and sent the unfortunate beast to the floor. "Uhhheerrr - what did you do that for?" "Shit, where is it?" "Get it out!" There it was, on the carpet, scuttling. I managed to repeat the routine, more efficiently this time, resisting the urge to flinch when I felt it move. I heroically transported it downstairs and ejected it onto the front path. I remounted the stairs to claim the gleeful thanks and inevitable promise of sexual favours that would undoubtedly be on offer after proving myself in such a dominant and unflinchingly masculine manner.
Not a word. Not a single bloody word of gratitude. What the hell has a man got to do?
posted by Richard at 1:55 am
4 Vegetable peelings:
You will have to leave a cobra in the bath next time.
Then she'll be grateful.
When we get spiders in the house, I just name them ("Fred," "Sam," Elmira," etc.) and tell the kids the spiders are their new pets.
Would you believe this worked on a three-year-old who had a spider dangling from her ceiling, right over her bed, for a week? We called him "Sam," and we were sorry when he finally webbed down and disappeared.
I'm not quite so sanguine about wolf spiders. They're 2 inches long and have hairy legs. I try to reason with them, usually unsuccessfully.
Thank you. You're my hero. Better now? ~Sharon xx
Thanks for the great story. I got here because I was looking for Sharon's nose.
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