There is an understanding in our household. I am the one in charge of killing all eight-legged creatures.
That's right. My husband is terrified of spiders. I can't say that I have any warm fuzzy feelings toward them. I especially despise those big wolf spiders with the hairy legs. Ugh. But, under our agreement, I kill spiders, and he kills cockroaches. (Now those things really give me the willies. I think it's the erratic movement.)
Most often, if I see a spider, I know it's best to kill it, then tell Jason what it was. That way, I can reassure him that it's dead, which means he doesn't have to leave the room.(Side note: The most crucial time I employed this tactic was while I driving on I-485 in Charlotte. I grabbed a napkin out of the center console, then launched three tries before killing a spider climbing on the ceiling of my car. I'm afraid to know what Jason would have done if he'd known what I was doing before I accomplished it.)
All of that to say this. I decided to kick my feet up for a few minutes while R napped. As I reclined on the couch, I noticed a dark spot on my kitchen ceiling. Then I noticed said dark spot moving. I decided it best to kill said dark spot before Jason got home from work.
I'd like to say that I did a remarkably swift and accurate job of killing the darn thing. It must be all that practice!
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