Wordsmoker

This past week, I read a lovely story by Penny Danger, wherein two spiders, being the friendly sort, tried to hitch a ride in her bosoms. Being terrified of spiders myself, I relayed the heart-wrenching story of being bitten while gardening, and my subsequent scarring. I was never going to garden again, said I, much to Penny’s dismay; gardening was too dangerous.

However, after reviewing Penny’s distress and realizing that I had four bushes in the back yard that desperately needed clipping, I decided to brave gardening once again. Yes, it was 106 degrees (before the heat index was even factored in), but I could just jump in the pool anytime I got hot. Or dizzy, whichever came first. Sure the pool water is 94 degrees, but that’s still cooler than the air, right? So I ventured into the shed (a haven for spidery things as it is), and sallied out clutching the manual hedge-clippers and a repository for my clippings. “Here I go”, I thought, “brave once more. For Penny.”

In between each bush clipping (stop it – I know what you’re thinking), I hopped into the pool and floated, trying to stave off the dizziness and praying for a breeze. Skye, my surfing dog, hopped in on her boogie board a few times to keep me company. All was going so well, the bushes all ended up trimmed, that I thought, “Hey! I have a lot of weeds in the cannalily bed that need to be pulled! I’ll get right on it!”

I knelt down, pulling weeds, sweat pouring off my forehead, so industrious! Penny would be so proud! And then I felt it, that dagger-like pain, just above my knee on that tender skin inside – a motherfucking spider has bitten my motherfucking leg. My leg on fire, I ran and jumped into the pool (why, you ask? I don’t know what I thought that would accomplish, except maybe the chlorine would kill the spider juice?). My leg was glowing red, I was dizzy, and out of breath – and I didn’t even get a chance to destroy that little sick twist piece of shit.

I try to be kind to spiders; if they’re not too juicy looking, I will carry them outside on a piece of paper or something and let them go. I even have one I allow to live in my bathroom in the far corner; he eats all the ants that occasionally invade my house. I vacuum the carcasses up carefully every once in a while. But as of today, that is over. Every shitty little spider that crosses my path is a goner. And no one, ever, will get me to garden again. My beds may be run over with weeds, I don’t care. I have a jumbo bottle of weedkiller and I am not afraid to use it.