Last week I was running some errands while Maya and I waited for her glasses to be made at the optometrist.
Sidenote: Maya got glasses, and HOW CUTE DOES SHE LOOK I MEAN SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS HOW CUTE.
So we are in the car driving back to the optometrist and I feel a tickle on my arm and you guys, I JUST KNEW.
I JUST KNEW IT WAS A SPIDER. Like Kristin Bell just knew there was a sloth in her house, I JUST KNEW THERE WAS A SPIDER ON MY BODY. In case you need a reminder, I don’t like spiders.
But I didn’t want to freak out the little girl in the backseat (although who am I kidding, she is about nine times tougher when it comes to bugs than I am) and also, I was driving in heavy traffic with no place to just pull over and handle this– so I convinced myself it was not a spider. Just a hair, Brianna, I mean seriously, how could a spider get in the car and then on your body, haha, you’re such an L7 Weenie.
And that actually worked until a half-mile later when I felt a tickle on my ribcage and looked down to see this
running up my side towards my face, which it obviously wanted to eat right off. It ran up my ribcage, across the boobs, over my shoulder, and down my back.
Oh my God, oh my fucking God there is a spider running all willy-nilly over my body while I am navigating a two-ton, flammable metal object, one that is also carrying my daughter, through a moving network of other large, flammable metal objects. There is absolutely nothing I can do in this situation except shit my pants and call it a day, right?
I kind of wiggled the best I could and Maya wanted to know what I was doing. “There is a spider on me,” I didn’t yell, an accomplishment for which you can send cookies to me directly. And Maya, ever so helpful and informative, replies, “Oh. Okay. Maybe it’s a tarantula.”
MAYBE IT IS, KID. THANKS.
Now I am in the middle of a left-hand turn. I cannot see nor feel the spider moving on me, but I know it’s there, waiting for a clear shot at my jugular or perhaps down my throat where it can lay eggs that will eventually burst through my stomach.
I’m squealing noiseless squeals.
Spider decides to make a break for it and shoots from between my back and the driver’s seat, across my hip, and down into my crotch. I saw my opportunity and took it, and people, I killed that spider with my ass. Here is a horrible visual for you: me, hands in a deathgrip on the steering wheel, maintaining a cool 50 miles-per-hour, bouncing and grinding my ass wildly on the driver’s seat, squealing and sweating and all this with an innocent child in the backseat.
I know. I KNOW. I don’t even have tinted windows.
I did this for the remaining two-mile drive to the optometrist and when I finally stopped the car in the parking lot, I took a deep breath and got out. It was dead. My ass ground that spider into dozens of pieces. I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE PROUD OF YOU, ASS. I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT HERE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.
I was shaking and sweating and cursing and yes, I know this was a gross over-reaction to what is just a bug, but you know what? Forget waterboarding, or electric shocks, or phone books, or whatever other torture method those types of agencies are using nowadays– Spider On You In A Car While Driving In Heavy Traffic should be THE go-to interrogation tactic. Your prisoner will absolutely be willing to share all the details within seven minutes of the spider being released onto their person while driving, or you can smack my spider-killing ass and call me Shirley.