SCREEEEEEEEAM!

I freeze in terror. My hand waits above my head ready to strike as my eyes search frantically for the intruder—heartbeat racing faster than an overweight humming bird. I'm not even sure if I'm breathing at this point. I assume I must be breathing because hysterical shrieking requires a fair amount of lung action, but respiratory functioning is merely an assumption at this moment in time. The only thing I know for sure right now is this: if the shit on this shitter hits the fan, I will likely go into cardiac arrest. I hope my underwear is still clean when first responders find my body.

I rattle the toilet seat with a swift kick of my foot.

My reaction is straight up:

Things would be so much easier if I could just squish the creepy blood sucker like a zit. But I can't. About 20 years ago I mentally signed an informal No Squash Pact with the arachnid community—an irrational agreement built entirely on blind trust and karma. The rules are simple. My part of the deal prohibits spider stomping. No exceptions. Temporary insanity due to hysterical freak-outs are no excuse for going Rockettes on their spinnerets. Instead of smearing an arthropod wad across my tiles, my job is to catch the misplaced wanderers in my home and release them back into the wild. That's it. I have one job.

As to be expected, the eight-legged nightmares also abide by a single law. If I return their silky-threaded asses to the outdoors unharmed, they will not use my body as an all-you-can-eat midnight buffet. The pact sounds hokey, but it works. I have no idea why it works—it just does. Since making this gentlewomen's agreement over two decades ago, my butt has been almost completely spider bite free. Clearly trusting in the mysterious unknown is an action which significantly alters reality—or at least moves happy hour for webbed ones to a different location. 

With one eye on the toilet trespasser, I scan the bathroom looking for a cup-shaped item to use as a temporary spider holding cell. I glance at an object hidden behind the porcelain throne and question its usability. Toilet paper tube? I ponder this for a second. Nope. The fucker could crawl out the other end. I'd shit my pants if it jumped on my hand. There shall be no soiled undies this evening.

I slowly move my gaze across the bathroom until I catch sight of another object that fits the specifications I'm looking for. Lid on the mouthwash? I shake my head in disapproval. Nope. That will only produce future images of spider legs getting stuck in my teeth when I gargle.

My search seems hopeless until I glimpse a cylindrical glass trinket collecting dust and soap scum out of the corner of my eye. It's resting on the edge of the tub and hasn't been used in ages. Candle holder? My brain again processes usability. That would probably work. It's not like I use it. Romantic bubble baths haven't been part of my life story since—well—since man landed on the moon for the very first time.

I slowly reach for the jar-like holder without taking my eyes off the eight-legged invader—now creepily crawling down the side of the toilet towards the floor. With the temporary spider containment device in hand—aka, candle holder—I patiently wait for the intruder to locate itself to a spot out in the open so a spider snatching can be executed properly.

I tap the top of the glass jar like a drum while I wait, quietly singing my unique version of the Cup Song under my breath.

"When you're gone.
When you're gone.
Not gonna miss you when you're gone.
Not gonna miss the webs you twined
Nor the sticky-string behind
No I'm...
Sure not gonna miss you when you're gone."

Eventually the spider foolishly wanders into an open space on the bathroom floor where the candle holder can be dropped over its body with one swift motion. No toilet seat disrupting the efficiency of the jar's path towards the floor. No walls hindering the acceleration needed to make a swift capture. No carpet compromising a secure seal upon impact. The conditions were perfect for an eight-legged capture—aka—OctaGam Slam.

Whoosh! Bam! Octa-Gam-Slam!

The spider is now trapped inside the upside down candle holder. I slap the floor a couple times and gently tap the jar.

[sings] "When you're gone.
When you're gone.
Not gonna miss you when you're gone.
Not gonna miss your beady eyes
Nor itchy bumps upon my thighs
No I'm...
Sure not gonna miss you when you're gone."

I tap gleefully. I tap proudly. In fact, I tap right into my unmusical talents and lack of rhythm. Literally. Although, this time when I tap the tiled floor, the spider thrusts of couple of its legs out from under the candle holder's rim. 

SCREEEEEEEEAM!

I leap off the ground and propel myself backwards about ten feet into a safety zone. A pissed off spider with legs protruding under its holding cell is basically the foundational image inspiring pretty much all scary movie scenes. I don't want to be anywhere near it—especially without shoes on. Nightmare on Bare Feet is not a horror movie classic I want to reenact. There is no need for another horrific bathroom scene involving creepy appendages.

Bouncing nervously in my flannel pajama bottoms and oversized sweatshirt, I assess the compromised seal at the base of the candle holder. Although there seems to be a breach in maximum containment, the inmate's body appears secured. I exhale a sigh of relief and wipe a few beads of sweat off my brow. Operation Spider Relocation can continue. However, the next step in the relocation process is by far the trickiest.

I leave the bathroom and search my condo for a flat object to slide under the candle holder. A bit of cardboard is generally perfect, but finding a sturdy piece of the stuff when you actually need it in an emergency seems impossible. Like—now. I can find a damn fire extinguisher, but not a fucking piece of cardboard? Sometimes life doesn't make any sense.

I glance over at my desk and spot a file folder labeled FANCY LADY. A file folder would work, I think to myself. It's not like you're actually doing anything with that folder anyway.

Fancy Lady is a fictional story I've been attempting to write for several years—but can't. The novel is weighed down with far too much pressure and expectations. I'm convinced writing the story is the reason I was put on this Earth. It's my soul—my artistic soul mate—my creative nakedness. It calls to me constantly, but I'm afraid to address the fear surrounding it. Fear of rejection. Fear of failure. Fear of not being good enough. Despite the fact my Fancy Lady story idea sings the song of my soul, it doesn't feel right—which makes no sense to me. Why would my soul yearn to be something it isn't or desire to have something it doesn't need?

I shake the contents of the Fancy Lady folder onto the floor, then clear a pathway from the bathroom to my porch. Leaving the front door wide open, I return to the bathroom and carefully slip the file folder under the candle holder—the spider now sprawled across the word FANCY.

Trust me, the irony of the current image is not lost on me. I'll put blind faith in a No Squash Pact for decades to honor my body, yet I'll empty the contents of my soul in a second when confronted with the smallest of emergencies. Something within me lacks clarity.

However, the rim of the candle holder seems to align snuggly with the surface of the file folder, so Operation Spider Relocation appears good to go.

Unobstructed pathway leading outside? Check.

Door wide open? Check.

Spider in lockdown? Check.

The above preparation is nice, but in reality it doesn't matter how confident a person is about Operation Spider Relocation—there will always be one screen in the mind's eye playing the following scenario:

My mind's eye has the above scenario playing on a jumbo screen!

"Let's do this." I take a deep breath, then carefully slide my hand under the file folder while pushing the candle holder firmly into my palm to keep the spider securely trapped inside. As I do this, I watch in terror as the once dime-sized spider grows to the size of a fifty cent piece. No seriously—that's what spiders do. As your fear expands, their size also expands. They're such assholes!

"5—4—3—2—1—"

With a quick jerk, I bounce up. Eyes remain closed. I scream the entire trip from my bathroom to the front porch. Once outside, I hurl the spider, candle holder and file folder into a nearby bush—followed immediately by a shimmying dance and frantic all-body rub down. One can never be too cautious. The spider could've leapt onto my frame midflight.

Eventually, when enough time passes, the terror leaves my veins. With a sigh of relief, I turn on my heel and go back in my condo. But before I pass through the threshold, I look back over my shoulder towards the bush with the spider and whisper, "Good night, Fiddy Cent." 

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

The No Squash Pact is something I do for real. It works. I don't know why, it just does. True story.

MUSIC: I had to Anna Kendrick this story. Love. Her.

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com

(This chapter is a second edit)