Living alone, for the most part, is a necessity of life I’ve come to enjoy.
(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)
For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.
And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.
But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.
You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.
And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.
I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.
Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.
Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.
But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.
I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).
Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.