I consider myself a fairly brave person. I have been threatened by politicians, swarmed by lust-driven tweens during an appearance by certain "Twilight" cast members, and have faced the hellish inferno that is Black Friday at Target. I may not laugh in the face of danger, but I have no problem talking about it behind its back.
Except for my kryptonite. My eight-legged, soul-sucking kryptonite.
Now, like many a young bride, I assumed that tasks like killing spiders and opening jars should fall on the shoulders of the husband, he who brings home bacon and takes out trash. My husband has no problems with bacon, trash or jar-opening (except for our sugar dispenser, but I think it could best Hercules). But when it comes to spiders, the whole household trembles.
Usually, I can, ahem, remedy the arachnid situation with a little help from the fine people at Swiffer, or in extreme situations, a little hairspray and a golf club. But we've got some brazen beasties that seem to have taken up residence on our back porch, and they merely laugh at our efforts.
After chasing one of them with said golf club until it ran out of clubbing range, we hosed down the back porch with industrial strength spider killer. It didn't kill the spiders, only made them stronger, but I am pretty sure it killed all our plants and somehow broke our hose (or maybe that was due to repeated thrasings with a golf club?). I talked to our loyal Orkin Bob about the situation, and he just laughed. "Oh yeah," he said, "some of those guys can be a real handful." Not helpful, Orkin Bob, and not why I pay you the big bucks.
So now we keep a big stick by the back door. It's on, spiders, it's on.
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