Calling Spielberg

It's not that I am comparing myself to Eva Gabor (if only!) or anything, but I do know how she felt. "Darling I love you, but give me Park Avenue", puh-leese. Yes, yes, anything but life in the sticks. In Texas. Now, life near Neiman Marcus in Texas is very, very nice. It's just the sticks--and just during droughts. When all the critters are out and about, searching for water. In my house, apparently.

Today is watering day for us. We are in an extreme drought, so that means even though it's OUR well and OUR water tank (and believe me, when you have a well, you don't waste water EVER!), we can only water our plants and trees (no lawn watering at all) once a week. And then, only before 10 am and after 8 pm. And only with a hand-held hose (or bucket?? what century are we in anyway?). So, there was a bit of a rush to get out this morning and give my plants a drink.

I opened the sliders to step outside. I always close them quickly because I have three slathering, hairy, smelly dogs trying their best to trip me up and beat me outside so they can then stare and me and wonder why it takes me so long to follow them. I'm a quick study though, and now, after seven years, I generally open the door a crack, yell VERY MEANLY "stay", and squeeze out, shutting the door behind me. This means I spend a little time in the actual door frame, yelling at the mutts.

Today, after I closed it quickly, and was standing on the patio, something hit my neck and rolled down my shoulders. It was cold and wet. I looked at it. It was about three inches long and black. As I looked down trying to figure out what it was, another one hit me. I looked up...and saw to my horror what it was.

It was a tarantula leg (or two or ten--or I guess, more accurately, eight? I have no idea because the rest of the nightmare morning is a blur). I saw the actual spider stuck in the top of the door. Wriggling. Dropping legs on me. Looking BLACK AND HAIRY. Oh, and really, really big.

Yeah, I screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Mr. herewegoagain came running and there I was, frozen in fear, pointing at the spider. HE, however, was truly, genuinely bummed that I seem to have killed the tarantula. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I certainly didn't want its cold, hairy LEGS dropping all over me.

"Good grief" he said. "Why were you yelling? It's just a tarantula. Poor little guy".

OK, am I the only one who thinks tarantulas are creepy? I know they really are the "good" spiders, and they make "great" pets, and I'm awfully sorry it got in the way of my sliding glass door, but I wasn't overreacting. I reacted just the way Spielberg intended me to when he wrote the Indiana Jones series. I reacted just the way audiences did while watching "Arachnophobia". I'm the normal one.

He certainly isn't. "Poor little guy" indeed. I still feel legs on me, and yes, I took a long shower--but that sensation will be with me for a loooonnnngggg time.

So, give me Park Avenue. Or Main Street. Or Anystreet, USA that has sidewalks and people, puppies and kitties, and not scorpions, snakes and spiders.