A couple of days ago (yesterday?) I saw a huge spider in the laundry area. As in, body 1" across, legs 2 inches long each.
No, I didn’t measure it.
I screamed. I screamed because this is what I do when confronted by little tiny creatures that can’t possibly harm me but startle me anyway. I screamed because I was scared. I screamed because, let’s face it, screaming is what I do.
I told Fahim there was this big-ass spider, so he came running and tried to sweep it towards the back.
I’d left by that point.
I don’t want to stick around and open myself up to the possibility of that thing crawling on me. Ick!
Then Fahim told me it escaped and hid under our fridge.
Today, I saw it out in the open again, same place as before, and it looked dead. I thought about just leaving it. After all, it’s dead – what harm can it do now?
I opted for telling Fahim anyway.
He came, he saw, he observed that the spider’s egg sac had ruptured and she was still giving birth while her babies were eating her.
He swept her and as many of the babies up as he could and dumped them out the back door. We hope the neighborhood scourge called ants will eat the baby spiders.
Now think. Had I not told Fahim about the spider, we’d have hundreds, possibly thousands, of those big-ass spiders in our house.