Chris Tucker is in my trash can

(Gratuitous profanity ahead, FYI.)

The time is 12:45 AM. I've been in bed, surfing the web on my phone, for about 2 hours now. The screen is dimmed to not disturb the cat curled next to me. Or the husband.

I've looked at all my usual sites, and since it's difficult to truly surf on the phone, I think I'm done. I am not yet tired. I am also not surprised. The choices are to count sheep or get up.

Thirsty, I head into the dining room toward the kitchen, and flip on the light. And suddenly, I'm standing in the hall. How did I get here? Why am I here?

A voice from the direction of the kitchen says, "You move fast for a fat bitch."

Oh, holy shit. It's a trash-talking dinner plate with eight legs. On the ceiling, in the doorway, between the dining room and kitchen.

I whimper, and try to cover it with a cough. He laughs. I glare. And take another step back.

"Where you going? Back to bed? Like you gonna fall asleep now!"

He has a point.

Luckily, I possess the tools necessary to dispose of home invaders. We invested in an Ultra SpyderMate 3000 some years back and it was money well spent. It's the perfect size too; it fits in that little space between the wall and the fridge... oh.

"Smoke comin' out your ears! The wheels are turnin'. Squeaky squeaky squeaky."

"Ok, you know what?"

"Yeah, I know what. I know what you ain't gonna do, and that's a damn thing."

I take a few steps, stop and look up. Lord, he was big. The cat is even hanging back, ears flat on her head. Ok, I can do this. I bounce on my feet a little, lean forward and stumble half a step.

Gotta get a little distance, that's all. I back up, crouch and shuffle-run towards the kitchen. Towards, but not through.

"You get close enough, I'm gonna pull a Mission Impossible drop into that rat's nest."

Must. Get. In. Kitchen.

Plan B. I will make him move. Not too far; enough so that I could avoid passing directly under him, but I didn't want the little bastard taking cover. Should I spray him? With what - everything is under the kitchen sink! We have got to find another place to keep shit.

And then I see it. A can of air.

"Move, or I will make you move."

I swear, he hocked a loogie at me. I squeeze the trigger.

"Arachnid adhesion, bitch! This feels good - like I'm on a ride at Disney World! Whee!"

"UGH! Fuck you! Move! Move!"

Time to assess the situation.
There is a huge spider in my house. I cannot kill it, because I cannot reach it, and will not touch it anyway. I cannot get to my 'tools' because the spider is threatening to burrow in my hair if I pass under him. I am afraid for the cat. A can of compressed air is fun, but it is no SpyderMate 3000. I will not sleep (or drink, or eat) until the spider is dead. Perhaps most disconcerting, the spider and I are holding a conversation.

I will have to wake up the husband.

"Baby?" Nothing.
"Mike? Mike?" Nothing.
I bump the side of the bed, and when he stirs, I say, "Hello. Hi there. Sorry. Um, yeah. Spider."

He is alarmed. He is disoriented. He is ignoring me and heading into the bathroom.

I wait. The cat waits. The spider waits. The clock ticks. We all take a moment to stretch and prep for the next Act.

"Where is it?" he asks, walking out of the bathroom.

"Is he British? That is one pasty motherfucker. How do you sleep with that glare? I need some Ray-Bans, stat!"

Mike walks straight into the kitchen, looking around.

"You just walked under it. Don't worry, I totally had your back."
I quickly put the can of air back on the table.

"HAHAHA! He didn't even see me! You've got a blind albino up in this bitch."

Grasping the SpyderMate like a pole vaulter, my husband eyes the ceiling.

"No broom is gonna scare me! Wait, what is that? There ain't no lint up here! No! It's sticky! STICKY! Oh, shi-"

Mike drops the lint roller on the floor.
"Goodnight."

"Ok then. Well done. I'll just take care of this."

My love and appreciation are implied.

I peel off the used sheet and drop it in the trash can. Filling a glass with water, I check out the ceiling. That's gonna be hard to reach with the Magic Eraser.

Back in the bedroom, I slide into bed.

Mike turns his head towards me.

"Do we own Rush Hour 2?"