Most people think of Malibu as oceanfront homes occupied by famous people dripping with 18 carat gold jewelry, but that is not true. Some of the jewelry is 14 carat. (See what I did there? Just call me Shecky.) Also, lots of people, myself included, live in the other Malibu, the slightly above middle class area with good public schools but that is also definitively RURAL. Of all the people on earth, I would be voted least likely to live in the country… yet somehow I got trapped here, and I didn’t even marry a farmer.
A few months after moving to Malibu, when I was still happily married (not to a farmer) I noticed that I had moved to the country and did what any self-respecting depressive would do, and took to my bed. I stayed there for roughly four months before I realized that it wasn’t changing anything. We still had to have propane delivered, as our property is too remote for a gas line, the dogs across the way barked every second of every day out of a misguided need to protect the entire mountain, and I still routinely came across insects like this:Not only are they incredibly ugly but yes, they bite. Cue uncontrollable shudder.
However, since exiting my bed five years ago, I have become increasingly used to living here, and somewhat more, dare I say it, rugged? I even went hiking last weekend, although I doubt I would have gone if a really hot dude hadn’t asked me. He dragged me up a mountain that I insisted was at a ninety-degree angle, though he claimed it wasn’t more than sixty; regardless I must have fallen on my ass no less than five times on the way down, not to mention all the mosquito bites. Of course, none of that was as painful as the next day when he didn’t call.
Anyway.In fourteen years I never went hiking with my ex-husband, though we did stay at some questionable hotels. He was and is a Jewish man, and as such, is not rugged. The way he solves things is to “call the guy.” Because there’s always a guy- namely someone who is not Jewish, who can come and fix shit, build shit and kill shit. Which brings us to the tarantula…
I was out on Saturday night and I was going to see a movie by myself, because I’m a fully-fledged freak! Wooo-hooo! Bring on the latest Helen Mirren flick, because I am a bad bitch ready to get down, yo. If I’m feeling adventurous, I may even get some GMO popcorn. Aw yeah, dawg, bring it.
My sons called me in a panic screaming, because that’s why you get your kids a phone- so they can have constant access to you even when you’ve managed to escape. I discerned the words “spider” and “huge” and “mommy we neeeeeed you,” so I reluctantly turned around and headed home, instead the balls-to-the-wall rager I had planned.
Upon my return, I noticed a fire truck in our driveway. Would have been hard to miss. Apparently, my ex-husband HAD CALLED THE FIRE DEPARTMENT TO KILL THE TARANTULA. I know I didn’t marry an Alpha male (except in business where he somehow manages to have the biggest balls in the room) but for fuck’s sake. My eyes rolled back so hard in my head, even though the firefighter was kind of cute and I knew it wouldn’t be attractive. I guess that’s what makes me a feminist.
After an hour’s search and a few dead wolf spiders that I’ve been putting up with because I had no firefighter to kill them with his flashlight, the firemen admitted they couldn’t find the original creature and left. They also warned me that it was mating season (you’re telling me motherfucker) and to keep the doors shut so other spiders wouldn’t follow the pretty hairy one inside. I snuggled into the bed with my kids (the bed I used to sleep in with my ex-husband, but that’s not weird) because they had lost their minds with fear.
Maybe because I grew up in Australia, land of shit that kills you, though I’m scared of spiders, I also grew up seeing lots of huntsman spiders and my dad routinely killing them by sucking them in with the vacuum cleaner. Which led to me lying awake at night contemplating it laying eggs in the dust bag, and the babies coming out in the hundreds to bite me if I fell asleep. Short of asking my sixty-something year old dad to fly out from Australia, and in the absence of an Alpha to protect myself and my offspring, I developed my own plan. If I ever saw that bitch again it would be ON.
The next night I saw her, on a box in the pantry near the floor. I got the kids out of there to eliminate the possibility of their girlish screams scaring away my prey. Then I went upstairs and fetched a ream of copy paper. Sneaking up on her, I almost felt bad. She was actually quite pretty and delicate- the kids had explained that she was not that hairy, and sure enough she looked like a tarantula that’d had a wax. I threw the ream of paper on her, and though she was half-squashed, she somehow managed to run out. I used a nearby Swiffer knock-off to crush what remained of her, repeatedly screaming, “Die fucker” in a burst of frightening female aggression.
Afterwards I felt a massive adrenaline rush. I didn’t need a man, damn it! I was a G-d damn Amazon (I’m tall, so I could say that.) I had kept my kids safe (albeit from an unlikely and even then non-fatal bite) and they treated me like the heroine that I was. I texted my ex-husband, gloating, with the picture below. I thought they had been exaggerating about its size, but judging by the scattered leg parts, apparently not. This bitch was as big as she was hairless. But she was no match for this hairless bitch, who apparently can undertake uncommon feats of courage and strength, but only if it’s a) to protect her kids, or b) to get laid.