The itsy bitsy spider....

Last night, as David and I were watching a movie, I discovered there was a spider on the living room ceiling. Naturally, I couldn't hit the pause button fast enough, much to my husband's annoyance. "There's a spider on the ceiling." "Why did you even look up there? We're watching a movie." "I don't know, but there is a spider on the ceiling. You need to kill it." He hauls himself out of the recliner, grabs a paper towel,  and disgruntledly starts to wander around looking for something to stand on. At this point, my spider-related neurosis kicks in. "Stand on this. You're taking too long. It's going to get away." Dirty look shot my way. "Be careful, don't drop it. Make sure it's dead. Is it dead? Did you drop it?" He steps down, crumpled paper and spider in hand. "Did you get it? Don't throw it in the trash! Flush it down the toilet!" (In Alanna land, spiders can magically resurrect unless squished AND drowned.) I get another dirty look, "It's under control. I GOT it. I'm GOING to flush it. " At this point I'm trying not to hyperventilate, because as he stands there pontificating, HE IS STILL HOLDING THE SQUISHED SPIDER! I take on a note of mild hysteria. "Flush it! Flush it! Why do you have to be so difficult?! You KNOW how I am about spiders!" "I know and I'm going to flush it." He is still standing there talking. It's probably been ten minutes (OK, thirty seconds). The spider is IN HIS HAND and he is just standing there! He finally flushes it, and we glare at it each other as the movie restarts.

Let me stress that this happens pretty much the same way EVERY time he has to kill a spider for me. In my head, there is a specific spider killing ritual that needs to be followed, without deviation, every single time. I don't know why he can't just stick to the rules! There aren't that many things I am this anal about (spider killing, the handling of raw chicken, his dirty briefcase on the kitchen table, and the way the dishwasher is loaded) (Shut up- that's not many.) On his part, he figures if it's dead, it's dead, regardless of the disposal method, and he gets irritated with what he sees as the "much ado about nothing" that each arachnidian encounter brings. (I know that's not a word, but I'm using it anyway)

I'm hoping by the time we're 70, he has the ritual down pat. No doubt, he's hoping by the time we're 70, I'm too blind to see any damn spiders.