Anyone who knows me, knows I don’t do spiders. In fact, I’ve been known to run from the tiniest of the eight-legged-freaks and even crawl backwards over sofas and high-backed chairs to escape and evade the little bastards.
So during my sister-in-law’s last visit, I heard her shout, “Mary, there’s a lizard under the TV stand!”
Instantly, “Tom! Get in here and catch this lizard!”
Mary knows I love lizards.
Quickly, I raced to the front room, heading for the stand without even needing to be instructed where to go. Our home is small like that – and unnaturally — we have only the one television.
Dropping to my stomach, right ear pressed to the hardwood floor, I looked under the stand. I heard myself squeak in an ultra high-pitched frequency as I shot to my feet and backed away.
“Spider! Big-ass-fucking-hairy-son-of-a-bitch!” I sputtered.
In response, Mary grabbed the broom from the coat closet, deftly slid the stand out-of-the-way and like a warrior of old, readied to do battle with the beast. But she could find neither a lizard nor a spider.
Instead — there near her cedar chest and the wall lolled a lone woolly-booger made of dust and dog shed.