I've been yelled at a lot lately because I have not been posting regularly.
I'm a horrible person. I know.
But you're going to forgive me by the time I finish writing about this past weekend.
Because it was jam packed with so much awesome that the warm glow from all that amazing awesomeness will seep into your heart and make it grow three sizes.
You see, this past weekend, I flew to Florida to visit my friend LyAnne. And while I want to skip ahead and tell you about the thing that made me almost wet myself, my OCD dictates that I take things in chronological order.
Just so you know, this story is going to be spread out over a few posts. Because we crammed a lot into three days.
I'll admit, the trip started off with a little turbulence, but you have to expect that.
For some reason, I always have trouble making it through airport security. I don't know why. I follow the rules. I carefully review TSA guidelines to see what I can and cannot take on the plane and pack accordingly. While I'm waiting in line, I go ahead and strip off anything that could set off the metal detector. And yet...
But this time I was prepared.
As I was going to Florida, I dressed for my destination in mind and wore a little sundress and sandals. No metal. Anywhere.
I rechecked my bags for compliance with all carry on regulations.
And off I went to the airport.
When I made it through the metal detector with no problems, I breathed a small sigh of relief.
And then, as I stood there waiting for my shoes to come through, I heard those ominous words...
"I need a bag check."
I knew it was me. I knew it.
Sometimes I hate being right.
I also know the drill. I stepped to the side with the nice TSA officer, while he gave me the lecture about how I can't touch while he goes through my bag, blah, blah, blah.
He started out by simply looking through my bag. Where he found nothing to warrant a bag check.
So he looked through it again. Nothing.
So then he took everything out of my bag and went through article by article trying to find what had caused the problem.
And there's nothing like standing there with your unmentionables laid out for all the people who are going to be getting on a plane with you to see.
Finally he gave up trying to find anything and let me put everything away and continue on my way.
Which involved getting onto a plane with a screaming baby across the aisle from me and a man who called me sweetie the entire time sitting beside of me. Including when I got up to let him into his seat and cracked my head into the overhead bin.
I do that Every. Single. Time.
It wasn't a long flight though, and it was easy to overlook all that stuff in light of the fabulous weekend we had planned.
On the way back to LyAnne's house, I confessed that I had packed clothes to go running while I was there. Because it's been a while since I've taken a vacation and obviously I've forgotten how.
In deference to my exercise obsession, LyAnne suggested we take a walk around her neighborhood before we headed out for dinner.
When we got back from our walk, it was time to change for dinner. LyAnne headed upstairs to change, and I started to grab my clothes out of my bag...
Except when I saw the GIANT spider crawling across my bag, I started yelling for LyAnne instead.
I met her on the stairs where I explained the situation to her.
Me: There's a giant spider crawling across my bag. It's *this big*!
LyAnne: Oh no. No. I can't take care of that. I really can't.
Me: What?!?! Well I'm not doing it. I'm the guest!
LyAnne: Okay. So what? We need bug spray or something, right?
I headed back to the living room to re-assess the situation.
And the spider is gone.
LyAnne walks in with a can of Lysol in her hand... because it sanitizes and deodorizes.
Me: LyAnne, it's gone.
Me: It's gone!! Okay. We have to find it. I'm sleeping down here! He was headed that way.
So I climbed up on the futon and LyAnne climbed up on the ottoman and we surveyed the room.
No sign of that f***er anywhere.
Me: Maybe it went behind the bookcase???
So she sprayed behind the bookcase.
But it wasn't enough. I mean, I had to sleep down there! I needed to see that spider's shriveled carcass!
Me: There's no hope for it. I'm going to have to dump my bag.
So I climbed down from my perch and carefully made my way to the opposite end from the spider's playground.
I took a deep breath, touched as little of the bag as possible, and flipped it over...
Me: OMG!!! OMG!!!
LyAnne: AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!! AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!
LyAnne furiously sprayed the giant acromantula as it ran across the living room floor.
But while he was now spring time fresh, he wasn't dead!
He was however stalled in a pile of my underwear.
And that's what pushed me over the edge.
It was in my underwear.
I grabbed up the sandal that had spilled out of my bag and came down on that spider like the wrath of God.
Then LyAnne hit it with some more Lysol.
After I had slain the beast, LyAnne grabbed a broom and dustpan to clean up the carnage. Except what if it wasn't dead???
Me: Hit it with the thing! (In this case, the "thing" was the dustpan, but I was so verklempt from the rush of adrenaline that I couldn't think of the word, so I just point wildly.)
Rather than smack it with the dustpan, she hacked at it. Separating its legs from its body.
So if it was alive, it wasn't going anywhere.
Finally, she swept up the creature and all its parts.
Me: Flush it! We don't want to have it in the house with us.
While LyAnne disposed of the body, I gingerly picked through my undies, wondering if I had to worry about little spider babies in my panties.
But surely the Lysol would've killed them, right?
After we managed to recover from the shock, we wondered if the neighbors had called the cops. Because surely people only scream like that when they're being hacked to pieces by a butcher knife wielding serial killer.
But when no knock came, LyAnne headed back upstairs, and I gathered up my scattered belongings... shaking each article to ensure any spider parts were gone.
And then the knock came at the door.
Oh shit. Someone had called the cops!
Except when I looked out the peephole, it wasn't the cops. So maybe it was one of the neighbors?
Not wanting to explain to LyAnne's neighbors why it sounded like someone was being murdered, I called her back downstairs.
Turns out it was a salesman. Who wanted her to switch to fios.
If he'd been five minutes earlier, he could've killed the spider, and she definitely would've switched to fios. As it was, she just sent him on his way.
Of course that spider was so big, chances are, it would've just been one more person screaming.
By the end of the night, the story of our heroics in the face of such a monstrosity had been shared with everyone (who would listen).
When I got home on Monday, Mom had left this on the kitchen counter for me...
LyAnne and I don't think you're funny, Peggy.