Why do we live here? - Vol. 2

I'm thinking of making this a weekly feature.

No, I'm kidding. I won't pester you with tales of the largest bugs I've ever seen...except for this last one. People, I have to do it - when one goes through a traumatic experience, an outlet is needed to release all of the anxiety produced by the experience itself and now, by the memories of it. (Shudder.)

I'll spare you the dramatics, but I had an encounter with a tarantula today. (Please re-read that last sentence, shudder, clap your hand over your mouth in horror, and read on in suspense.)

It is normally Casey's responsibility to take the trash can and recycling out to the curb on the appropriate morning, but he was out of town on business and the task fell to me. I put Gavin in his high chair, loaded his tray with mandarin oranges, and set out to pull the cans to the curb. I noticed when I opened the garage door that there was a large dark shadow on the driveway. I thought little of it, thinking it was a large leaf or other foliage (looking back: a leaf? From what tree? There are leaves here?). As I strained to pull the trash can down the driveway (lest ye think I'm a total weakling or that my little try-to-be-earth-conscious family of three produces inordinate amounts of trash, I had no idea Casey had loaded the thing with two large buckets full of broken rock from when he knocked down part of our back wall. I nearly pulled my arms out of my sockets on the first yank.) and passed said "shadow," I realized to my UTTER HORROR that it was a tarantula, presumably dead, definitely hairy, too many legs, sprawled on its back in dramatic fashion, as though it had fought for its last breath by reaching one hairy leg up to the sky and falling down dead at the effort. Rather Shiz-like, if you ask me.

Let me sidestep the current story to make a comment: how many legs are appropriate and absolutely necessary for a living creature? I say the limit is definitely 4. Any remotely cute creature, human or animal, comes with a number from 2-4. (To all you devil's advocates out there, I sympathize with those who have lost limbs, were born without them, or came out of a recent surgery with one too many limbs [shout out to Brian Regan fans!]) 6 limbs are too many, which leaves the most dreaded number of all: 8 and above.

Back to the story: as I passed said dread horror and realized what it was, there were oh so many reactions. First, mental: is it really dead, or just playing dead? You might laugh at a spider who "plays dead," but I've had several experiences with such little beasts, and so has my mother. It's true - they can and do deceive us. Second, my sympathetic nervous system kicked in, initiating the fight-or-flight response. My pupils dilated, I was breathing hard, my heart was pumping very fast, and I suddenly had enough strength to chuck the trash can over that mountain, there. Sorry for the nerdy human body reference. Third reaction, which was mental again: should I ask the landscaping workers across the street if they will take care of it? I don't speak Spanish, though...how do you say "spider" in Spanish? I have to go get the other can and walk past that thing again! WHAT IF IT MOVES???

In hindsight, I really don't know what I would have done if it had moved or twitched in the slightest. I may have had a heart attack and died right there, and as I fell to the driveway I almost certainly would have tried to position my dead body as far from that thing as possible.

I had no time for dramatics, though (okay, so I lied about writing a non-dramatic treatment of the events), because I had left Gavin inside with food on the tray, and I can't do that for too long lest he choke. (Is it even possible to choke on a mandarin orange?) I scooted up the driveway, not looking at the spider and hoping that was enough to make it either lie still or disappear. Trash can number 2, which was considerably lighter than number 1, was practically shoved from the edge of the garage down to the curb without human help, and I just prayed it would stop at the curb. I ran back into the house and shut the garage door and door into the house as fast as I could, just sure that I was about to be followed.

I was shaking and sweating as I went back into the house. I was happy to see that Gavin was not choking and was in fact smiling cheerfully and waiting patiently for phase 2 of his breakfast. As I started to get his cereal ready, I called Casey because I was literally about to cry. If this experience (coupled with encounter #1 with a different, live tarantula 2 years ago) didn't show me exactly how arachnophobic I really am, I don't know what would have done it. Casey was appropriately sympathetic, but I made sure to let him know I was NOT touching that thing and he'd have to take care of it when he got home late that night. This of course had two purposes: number one, do you really think I was going to go near it?? I wasn't even going outside the rest of the day, in the back or front yards. Number two: I may have a tendency to exaggerate things for effect when the story is re-told (the size of a spider, for instance, is apparently subjective. I don't think that's true. Most are huge.) and I was darn well going to make sure that Casey saw the hairy beast in all its "dead" and poly-legged glory. He saw it all right, and I felt validated. He also may have used a shovel to chuck it back to Hades, but I did not witness that. No victim wants to face the perpetrator again.

That's my story for the day, and because I refuse to even look up a picture of a tarantula to post on this blog - no picture of a spider shall ever darken the brightness and light of this 2-legged blog - I drew a remarkably accurate representation of exactly how the thing was positioned on the driveway. You might ask how I know this, seeing as how I refused to go near it. Well, since you can see a tarantula from about a half a mile away, and since the image is burned into my brain like any traumatic experience would be, I have a very good idea of how things went down. Or at least how the little (I mean HUGE) faker would have me BELIEVE they went down:

If you will turn your attention to the red arrow, I have pointed out a leg that was draped across its body, as if it experienced some sort of great distress before keeling over. I spared you a representation of the hairiness.

Needless to say (or repeat, anyway): Why, oh WHY do we live here?