I’ve been reluctant to tell you about Derek. Mostly because my husband reads my blog and doesn’t know about Derek. Derek is my dirty little secret. It’s been going on for awhile now, almost 2 months.
As reluctant as I’ve been to tell you all about Derek, that pales in comparison to how much I don’t want my husband to know. See, once he knows about Derek things are going to get real tense in this house and I have the kids to think of, and the cat. I don’t think Jojo could handle the stress.
But it’s time. I can’t hold it in anymore. I see him almost daily and it’s inevitable that my husband is going to catch me locking eyes with Derek and wonder what’s going on. I have to fess up. I must come clean.
The first time Derek and I saw each other I was rushing out the front door heading to the grocery store. I forgot my reusable grocery bags and turned around to grab a few from the closet by the front door. That’s when I spotted him out of the corner of my eye.
First, some backstory. My husband hates spiders. Hates them! And, he has infected our children with his arachnophobia. Even the cat won’t go near them. I have had to step forward as lead spider killer in the family. Anyone finds a spider, my name is called. Tissue. Smoosh. Flush. The spider’s mutilated corpse must be flushed or no one will sleep because they are consumed with thoughts of an angry spider with 3 1/2 legs, hellbent on vengeance, combing the house for a throat to slit.
Normally, I’d just kill Derek before anyone even had time to find him and freak out about him, but I’m in a bit of a sticky wicket because Derek lives in the locked closet that holds our air handler. I can see him peeking out the slats of the closet, but every single time I try to murder him he slinks back into the closet like the smug motherfucker that I know he is.
See, we live in an apartment and I guess the management here is really nervous that I’m going to make an unauthorized filter change or steal the air handler and carry it down three flights of stairs and drive it to a pawn shop. So, they don’t allow residents access to the closet. They have the key. I don’t.
Little do they know, I can’t even handle carrying a bottle of wine and loaf of bread up here without heart palpitations and excessive wheezing. And I don’t care about their stupid handler anyhow. I just want to kill Derek! For the love of all things holy, let me kill Derek!
Cause, see, once my husband reads this blog post he’s going to know there’s a spider in the house that can’t be killed. Spiders in the house that I can kill are a bad enough situation for me. There are a fuck ton of them here. They are everywhere. In every corner of the house. Around the front door. Chilling on the porch. They own this place.
So, I’m always killing them. It’s become a part time job for me. I squish them and sweep them and vacuum them up. I curse their names and put a pox on all their houses. But they can’t be stopped. They always come back because spiders are assholes.
And Derek is the biggest asshole spider of all the asshole spiders. Derek must die.
Derek must die because Derek thinks I can’t kill him. The others ones know. They either get killed or watch me kill their brethren one by one every single day. They stay in line, tuck themselves in high corners, don’t mess with the hierarchy. Except for that one my husband caught making a web across the entire width of the guest bathroom tub. That one was kinda gutsy.
But Derek, Derek thinks he’s untouchable. I’m pretty sure I heard him say “bye bitch” the last time I lunged for him. Derek is working my last nerve.
I’ve vacuumed the slats of the door many times only to have him pop up the next day, wave hello, and shoot me the bird. I will sometimes linger at the front door waiting for him to pop out so I can smoosh him. I’m never fast enough, though. Derek has home closet advantage. I hate Derek.
Now that my husband has read this, he knows there’s a spider that can’t be killed. And Derek sure as shit knows he can’t be killed and that’s a very serious situation. It’s going to be a match to the death. Either my husband is going to figure out a way to kill Derek or he’ll drop dead from the stress of having an untouchable spider in the house.
It’s bedlam, people! Absolute anarchy!
My husband usually reads my posts on his lunch break. So, if you hear a story on the news of an entire apartment complex in the Carolinas imploding around 12:45 p.m. today, you know who’s responsible. Don’t judge him, though. Just know Derek had it coming.
Smug motherfucker. I hate Derek.
I don’t think I’m getting my security deposit back, huh?
*Featured image courtesy of Pixabay.