Face of Fear

Peeps, last night I looked fear in the face.

And I ran inside and slammed the door.
No, I would never make it in the zombie apocalypse.

As the place is now prepped for paint, this weekend we began work on the cottage. The bro helped me move all of our unable-to-unpack-for-almost-two-years boxes. I can now see the floor of our closet. You never realize how much you miss a floor until it makes its reappearance after a long absence. Sunday, Dad, bro, and the hubs came by to help the MIL and myself spruce up the place. Chris and I make a mean wallpaper-stripping team, and Dad and Matt painted my new study.

The paint was brighter and bolder than anticipated, but I think I’m in love. Yes, I must certainly am. Spunky paint. That’s what it is. Spunky.

The hub’s man cave will be awesome once the paint’s finished. It’s gone from “gameroom” to “man cave.” Why? Because I was told last night it will hold the hub’s long lost buck trophy.
Yeah, a dead deer head on a plaque.
I’m totally ok with this—like it even—I just told him it wasn’t going over the mantle. Please and thank you.

All this to set you up for last night.
With the fear.
Oh gosh, the fear.

We dropped by the cottage after dinner to finish up a couple of projects, and in a moment of satisified thoughtfulness, we both looked out the window.
An army was waiting for us.
Usually, I look out the windows the only bugs zipping around are lonely strays or a lusty love-bug harlem.
But this.
Oh my.
I had never seen so many. Drawn to the light through the window like honey, swarming masses of moths and tiny flying things gave themselves concussions as they threw themselves at the glass, desperate to reach the shininess.
It’s a good thing I’m not squeamish.
Because, you see, this is going to be my home in a week and a half. I better get used to it. And develop deadly aim with the all-natural-but-supposed-to-kill bug spray. S. Pete the Bug Slayer. It could work.

We decide to leave, open the door, and are met by total darkness. There are no street lights around the cottage. We are in the woods, and it is BLACK outside. And, unfortunately, our cars are not waiting for us at the door like happy puppies. No, they're several feet away, encased in bug-ridded darkness.
So I take a hesitant step forward, eyes straining, trying to decide whether I should run for it or take my time, feeling my footing on unfamiliar ground.
Chris, being ever so intelligent, opened the door and switched on the light to porch.

And there it was.
Fear.
Staring me in the face.

It was the biggest spider web I had ever seen, spanning the entire porch. Huge. Unrelenting. The steel of the bug world. Right in front of me. I was inches from death by hysterics.
Sitting in the middle was a fat spider, speckled, maybe the size o a quarter, sitting gluttonously on his little throne like an arachnid godfather. He knew he ruled the world, he knew that he, so small, controlled my every movement. He spun on those jointed, spindly legs, mandibles twitching, all eight beady eyes staring me down. Vicious little creature. His Napoleon complex was well deserved

All of this I process in a single second.
The next, I opened my mouth, and the wailing . . . oh dear, my wailing put Macaulay Culkin’s Home Alone screams to shame.
I jumped backwards, and managed to squeak, "I'm going inside."
 So I did, like a coward, and  hid while my knight in shining armor vanquished the horrific foe. Still, my stomach was in knots, my skin crawling with imaginary creatures, thinking, "Good God, one more step ONE MORE and . . . oh my . . . oh dear . . . I can't think about it without wanting to scream again."

Chris poked his head in the door, smiling.
He was victorious.
Fear was dead.
Or else sulking in the grass, mourning his destroyed structure of glory, planning his revenge. “You talk about vengeance."
Yes, yes I do.

That’s why I darted to my car whimpering.
It’s already begun.
You see, there were cobwebs trailing my care this morning.
Fear has followed me home.