Brown Spider: A Hate Story

“There’s a spider in the car, Mama,” comes a little voice from the back seat.

It was a calm statement. One of interest more than anything else, said in the same way she might say, “The sun is out, Mama,” or “I like suckers, Mama.”

“Where?” I asked, looking for what surely was a wisp of a spider with a smiling face, spelling sweet things in her web.

“Right there. Up there.”

I look to where she points and there, clinging to the sunroof not two feet from my head, is a disgusting, pointy-legged, hell hound of a spider.

[If spiders did not give me a threat level midnight case of the jeebies there would be a picture of the horrid thing right here. However, since I nearly threw my laptop on the floor and squashed it while doing a Google image search, you’ll have to just use your imagination. I suggest picturing it with a pentagram tattooed on its hairy chest, flicking a cigarette to the ground, cracking its knuckles and pulling out a switchblade. Kinda like this:]

“Oh, that’s okay sweetie. I’ll get it when we get to Uncle Matt’s house,” I say with my mouth inexplicably. In my head is something more along the lines of “Holy [expletive] [expletive]—there is is a [expletive] spider about to eat my face! It’s going to jump on my arm! It’s going to eat my babies! What the [expletive] am I going to do!?”

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll take care of it.” Where’s my freaking Oscar? I earned it.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEAM!

If you’ve never heard a preschooler scream like an appendage has just been ripped from her body, you’re missing out on one of life’s most terrifying noises. Horror movies have it all wrong. They don’t need ignorant teen girls; they need kids and spiders.

It was on the move. To my kid, it might as well been on her face. Panic set in for me, too, as I would do just about anything to make that blood-curdling sound stop. I pulled into the right lane without looking even a tiny bit. Okay spider—now you’re trying to murder us. I turned on the first residential street I saw and stopped the car. Flip-flop in hand, I poised myself for revenge. One good slap aaaaand…

…it crawled into the cavern that houses the sun roof.

“Did you get it Mama?”

To which I reply, “No! I didn’t! And now, knowing my intent, it has retreated to its bunker, sketching out a plan to hop on my head and startle me, sending our car careening across the street resulting in our untimely deaths! We’re ALL. GOING. TO DIE!”—with my head, that is. My mouth said, “It’s not going to bother us anymore.” Except to murder us.

With one and a half eyes on the sunroof, and half an eye on the road, I continued to my brother and sister-in-law’s house, willing other cars to get the hell out of my way. I arrived, I parked, evacuated the children and—once they were safely inside—gathered tools for my revenge. If I couldn’t kill it with my flip-flop, I’d kill it with limited edition Orla Kelly Pear Ginger-scented Method All-Purpose cleaner. Get ready to die a fragrant death, you beast.

I was out there a long time, you all. A LONG time. First I tried to find it in its hideout, which proved to be rather difficult. I grabbed a flashlight—no use. So then I thought, “Hey! I’ll use my phone to take pictures and that’ll show me where it is.”

No. No, it won’t.

What to do, what to do… I’m climbing on the car, looking down through the sunroof, I’m in the car smashed against the dash looking into the sunroof—no spider. So then I just blindly spray every inch of the sunroof slot. After a quarter of the bottle is gone, I figure I must have killed it, but I need evidence. I need proof. Finally I’m like, “Screw it. It’ll just have to jump on my face later. I retreat.” and then…

Legs.

Digusting little legs.

Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I am now having a full-on, completely audible street-fight type conversation with Mr. Gross-a-lot. I’m fully aware of how crazy it looks, but it’s just me and him now. We’re at the epicenter. I don’t care if no one else gets it.

They say, to catch your prey you need to think like your prey, so I sat there perched, rubbing my imaginary pointy legs together as I lie in wait. I wanted to let it get some distance from it’s bunker so I could take it out once and for all. Slowly but surely it inched its way into the vast expanse of the car roof when—WHACK! SCRAPE! FLICK!—I joined forces with my inner wonder twin, and activated ninja forces in the shape of my flip flop. In a swift and elegant move (or possibly, a flailing, twitching, screaming move), that spider was on the ground.

Good riddance, Brown Spider. Return to the evil dimension from whence you came.