There are a handful of things in this world that make me want to wet my pants with fear. This, is one of them:
And don't ask me why wetting my pants is my response for fear. It just is.
I kid. I haven't wet my pants since I was pregnant.
But seriously. Spiders scary the living daylights out of me. Especially when they're super fast and active like this ‘ol beast.
I can just hear some readers now:
Shaye, what kind of homesteader are you! Ain't no homesteader afraid of no spiders! Buck up, sunshine! Why don't you just march that sissy ‘lil tail of you off to the city, cause us country folks know how to deal with them spiders!
Back off. I can't help it.
The Lord is speaking to my weakness, you see. For I love gardening so much – and yet, I hate one of it's greatest advocates: the spider. As I pull weeds in the heat of summer or rummage around while harvesting strawberries or green beans, I know they are there. Staring at me with their zillions of eyes. And I allow them to remain because a) I couldn't get rid of them even if I tried and b) they eat lots of bad bugs.
In the garden is one thing. On my terra cotta pot, inside, near my hand, is another.
So, I did the only thing I could. I opened the window, grabbed the pot and chucked it out in the front yard. Then, I cried and hid in the closet until Stuart came home.
I guess you could say I keep my cool pretty well.
Hey, we all have our kryptonite. Mine just has eight legs.