There is Currently a Spider
Somewhere in the vicinity of my desk.
I saw it crawling on the curtain and screamed at it. That made it fall down among my books. So I took a shoe and poked at the books until it ran out. Then I screamed at it again and it ran under the stapler. I thought that was weird, to run underneath a stapler. What a strange thing to even be able to run underneath. Anyway, you can probably guess the next sequence of events: poke with shoe, scream, run away. Repeat until spider goes behind desk and stays there.
I am not what you would call a tough broad. A partial list of the things I am afraid of might contain: bugs, the dark, strangers, mold, elevators, airplanes, being put in a loony bin, food poisoning, water, heights, small places, too-large places, being hot, throwing up, burglars, the idea that all the people I love will suddenly become different people who are strange to me, zombies, needles, dogs.
I think there is a common misconception that housefraus, ladies who bustle around the home doing ladyish things, are pansies. Faint-hearted. Wimps. Quite the contrary. Why, a good housefrau must possess a steely resolve and a stomach of iron. Must confront unidentifiable tupperware contents without a quiver. Must haul heavy laundry baskets up and down the stairs with nary a complaint. Must face down intruding spiders with a big black shoe and a soldier’s bloodlust.
A good housefrau doesn’t solve her housekeeping problems by screaming at them, then writing about it. A good housefrau straightens her apron and confronts whatever hideous thing it is until the blight is rubbed out and life once again gleams clean and odor-free.
I don’t have an apron, and my bloodlust is sadly dampened by my innate squeamishness. I’d like to be the sort of lady who, when the zombies start marching, calmly whacks their heads off with a machete, then goes about serving a four-course meal to her guests; while the world ends around her, she heroically saves at least her own dinner party.
But I’m not. When the zombies rise, you’ll find me at the mall, playing house in a department store. And when Tom Savini comes, boy, won’t I be a picture!
Jesus fucking christ I hope that spider doesn’t come back out.
I saw it crawling on the curtain and screamed at it. That made it fall down among my books. So I took a shoe and poked at the books until it ran out. Then I screamed at it again and it ran under the stapler. I thought that was weird, to run underneath a stapler. What a strange thing to even be able to run underneath. Anyway, you can probably guess the next sequence of events: poke with shoe, scream, run away. Repeat until spider goes behind desk and stays there.
I am not what you would call a tough broad. A partial list of the things I am afraid of might contain: bugs, the dark, strangers, mold, elevators, airplanes, being put in a loony bin, food poisoning, water, heights, small places, too-large places, being hot, throwing up, burglars, the idea that all the people I love will suddenly become different people who are strange to me, zombies, needles, dogs.
I think there is a common misconception that housefraus, ladies who bustle around the home doing ladyish things, are pansies. Faint-hearted. Wimps. Quite the contrary. Why, a good housefrau must possess a steely resolve and a stomach of iron. Must confront unidentifiable tupperware contents without a quiver. Must haul heavy laundry baskets up and down the stairs with nary a complaint. Must face down intruding spiders with a big black shoe and a soldier’s bloodlust.
A good housefrau doesn’t solve her housekeeping problems by screaming at them, then writing about it. A good housefrau straightens her apron and confronts whatever hideous thing it is until the blight is rubbed out and life once again gleams clean and odor-free.
I don’t have an apron, and my bloodlust is sadly dampened by my innate squeamishness. I’d like to be the sort of lady who, when the zombies start marching, calmly whacks their heads off with a machete, then goes about serving a four-course meal to her guests; while the world ends around her, she heroically saves at least her own dinner party.
But I’m not. When the zombies rise, you’ll find me at the mall, playing house in a department store. And when Tom Savini comes, boy, won’t I be a picture!
Jesus fucking christ I hope that spider doesn’t come back out.
posted by Housefrau at 10:33 AM
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