Wait until you see what I found in my basement this evening.
So there I was being a Good Wife and making my husband a chicken and egg salad sandwich for his lunch tomorrow. Awwww. What a great wife I am.
Don’t go getting all excited. Poor Darling Husband has to make his lunch all the other 364 days of the year. Today was a fluke. He usually makes his lunches on Sunday afternoon, but this past Sunday afternoon was our Easter Feast. We ending up passing out right at the dinner table after disgustingly stuffing ourselves during our festivities. I had to prod Darling Husband awake the next morning with the ham bone that was stuck to his shirt and he staggered off to work with only a leftover biscuit covered in I Can’t Believe it’s not Butter for lunch.
Oh wow. What an awesomely exaggerated paragraph that was. I have missed writing this blog so much. There are very few places in life when you can get away with outright lies as in that above paragraph. So refreshing.
Ok—back to the story.
So…there I was being a Good Wife, making him a sandwich for his lunch. And of course it was egg salad (with just a bit of leftover chicken thrown in.) Part of the Easter Festivities had involved dyeing 589 eggs. Hoo-boy, that’s a lotta eggs.
Nephew14 and his family wouldn’t touch the eggs and sidled out the door before they’d even all been dyed. They’re smart like that. They didn’t want to have to eat egg salad sandwiches for the next six months like we’re going to have to. Mom and Dad took one egg each. That left 587 eggs for me and mine. I wonder if egg salad freezes well?
I hollered out from the kitchen to Darling Husband, “Yo! I’ve made up the egg salad. Do you want me to slap it on some bread for you?” That’s the sort of lovey dovey talk that goes on in this house. Ah, l’amour.
He yelled back, “Not unless you know where the bagels are.”
I don’t know where the bagels are but since I was on a roll I looked around for them. They weren’t anywhere upstairs. Maybe they were in the basement freezer. I made my way down the rickety basement stairs.
And then, “Bam, Shazaam! Holy arachnids, Batman!” What do I see but a monstrous beast in the basement.
Here’s a picture of it.
Now I know you’re thinking, “I can barely make out that tiny little dot in the middle of the picture.” Just wait.
I called out to Darling Husband, “We’ve got a tarantula in the basement! Check it out!” He came to behold the wonder with his own eyes and said, “Quick–take a picture. Grab an action figure so there’s a frame of reference. I’ll watch it to see that it doesn’t get away.” Snort. As if he’d be able to stop it if it wanted to get away. Maybe with a lasso and a stun gun.
I ran back upstairs to grab an action figure. It had to be one that wouldn’t fall over on The Beast and enrage it. How about The Hulk? He’s easy to stand up. Darling Husband gingerly placed The Hulk sort of near The Bug.
But not too near. Darling Husband leaped back before the Mighty Monster could react. He noted, “It’s sluggish. Maybe because it’s so stinkin’ cold in this house.” You’re preaching to the choir, Darling Husband. I haven’t been warm in this house since 2005.
I tried to take the picture, but taking a picture while cowering in the farthest corner well out of range of a mighty leap wasn’t working. Back upstairs to put the zoom lens on the camera.
Here’s the picture.
The problem is that the Hulk action figure is larger than normal sized action figures. That’s what happens when you have the word “hulk” in the very name of something. It was messing up the Frame of Reference.
So…back up the stairs. I grabbed the Iron Man Lego Mini-Fig.
As you can see the spider is, like, five times the size of a Lego Mini Fig. Maybe even nine times the size, I just don’t know.
I’m wondering what caused the spider to grow so large? Maybe a steady diet of million leggers. Oh, shudder at the mere thought. I’m sending Darling Husband out tomorrow for a Hazmat suit for me. That’s the only way you’re getting me in that basement when I’m home alone.
Maybe he can pick me up a taser while he’s at it.