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How Arachnophobia broke my writers block
Did you ever see the movie Arachnaphobia? Let me set the scene for you: Jeff Daniels is trapped in his basement. He's badly injured himself in a frenzied attempt to kill the granddaddy of all spiders (during which he destroys a prized wine collection and sets his basement on fire) only to find that it is crawling inexorably closer to his foot while he is trapped on the floor. It's his worst nightmare come to life, and he is literally paralyzed with fear. At the last second, he forces himself to action and catapults the furry bastard into the growing blaze in his cellar, only to have it immediately launch back through the air at him whilst aflame!
Alas, this is my life story. Minus the super poisonous deadly aspect of the spider. And the flames.
No flames so far, anyways.
I have been unreasonably afraid of spiders for as long as I can remember. Sure they are relatively small, fairly inoccuous creatures, and even if they bite you, it's generally in self defense and the bite is typically less troublesome than a mosquito or flea bite. But the fact remains that if I see one crawling across the floor, I'm climbing the furniture faster than you can say "AAAAIIIIIEEEEEYYYYAAAAA!!!!" And if a spider crawls on me? Well. I am undone for the remainder of the evening, let me tell you. It's something about the eight legs, and the way they move... Gah! Just thinking about it makes me a little sweaty and nauseous.
So it is no surprise that one cannot live one's life this way. And since the fear itself is nearly impossible to control (see Phobia), one must learn to control some *other* aspect of the situation. In my case, the most likely control subject is the spider itself. More to the point... its immediate destruction. Much like Jeff Daniels' character, it's me or the spider! The Spider MUST Die! Attempting to kill a creature that you are deathly afraid of, however, can lead to some amusing and important life lessons. (Jeff's character, as I recall, ended up moving into a condo in the city.) It was shortly after one of these recent lessons that I was inspired to write this article. Let us begin the story now, hmmm?
My day began much as it always does - with my alarm going off repeatedly until I'm able to drag myself from the bottomless pit of unconsciousness, or else find myself ejected forcibly from the bed by those members of the sleeping community that like to start their day *after* the sun rises, and don't like to hear my alarm going off every nine minutes.
My next destination is usually the shower, and this morning was no different until I arrived at the doorway of our bathroom and discovered that in order to complete my morning ritual, I would have to implicitly agree to shower directly under one of the largest, creepiest spiders that our forested mountainous neighborhood can generate. It's not just that the spider was large, black, and capable of moving at speeds that achieve escape velocity from our cat... it's that it was positioned on the highest wall of our vaulted ceilinged bathroom, and any sort of shower would certainly create enough moisture to cause it's little foot/claw/hair thingies to dislodge from the wall and then it would fall right upon me... SHUDDER/SHRIEK!!! The yellow and cheery color theme in our bathroom was a stark contrast to this predatory monster that evolved to be invisible under any leaf, and the damned thing looked like pure evil to me. There was no doubt about it - there would need to be a killing in the bathroom that morning.
I surveyed the possible methods of spider-cide, and I realized that most of them would require a ladder, quite a bit of speed and dexterity, and a steel will to overcome the freakish terror that would engulf me upon coming within striking distance of the dark beast. The trouble was that I possessed none of these resources. The ladder was in the carport - a good 50 feet from the house, which would mean clothes, shoes, and flashlight (and possibly more spiders!) The speed and dexterity would be best achieved after at least 2 hours of wakefulness (wakefulness being a state still in my hazy future at that point.) And a steel will to approach the object of my deepest fear? I think not. I only do battle with spiders when the odds are overwhelmingly in my favor. So what to do? I needed to find some handy substitutions for my missing components in this recipe of death.
To replace the ladder, I realized that I would need some other sort of extension. Brooms and mops were outside with the ladder, Staci's cane was just not long enough, and the ironing board was too heavy to wield as an anti-spider weapon. This was about the time that my sleep muddled brain hit upon the perfect solution. I would snap it with a towel! UTTERLY BRILLIANT, I thought. Because aiming a towel at a spider the size of a half dollar from three feet away, and catching the spider on the whip snap doesn't require any dexterity, right? Well... did I mention that I was still mostly asleep? It seems that I had already forgotten about the other two components to my recipe...
But I hear you saying to yourself (or the computer screen, if you are the vocal sort) "Back up there, buddy... did you say three feet away? What about these vaulted ceilings you keep talking about, and the whole title of this post? Are you seven feet tall or something?" Ha ha ha - no of course not, silly reader. I'm less than six feet tall, and my bathroom ceiling, if anything, is more like 12 feet high. This only makes your question more valid, however. The answer, of course, is that I had to do my snapping feat while standing on the toilet seat lid with my arm stretched all the way out. Now you see the logic, yes? Of course you do. You may also see why I am about to identify so closely with the basement-on-fire incident in Arachnophobia.
I might also point out, for clarity's sake, that your average low-end toilet seat is not exactly reinforced steel. It's usually painted wood with chrome coated plastic hinges. If you're lucky. And to stand on top of one while creating uneven counterweights and forces (like snapping a towel on your tippie-toes, say), is not exactly part of it's canon of recommended usage.
The worst part of all this, is that I knew all of it before I willfully engaged in my skirmish with the spider. I do not, to the best of my knowledge, have brain damage, so... argh! On with the story.
As I climbed up onto the seat lid with my chosen weapon (a beach towel, cos' they're longer), I felt the slippiness of my perch. But any thoughts of my personal danger from falling and cracking my head on the porcelain tank (or putting it through the shower door, or knocking it into the granite countertop, etc etc) were dwarfed by the Clear and Present Danger of the SPIDER, which was now at least two feet closer to me than it had been. My heart began to pound.
And so, to summarize - the ladder had been substituted for a towel and a toilet seat, the need for dexterity had been forgotten, and the fear factor had been suddenly remembered. The next sequence of events happened very, very fast. I will now endevour to give you the play-by-play:
How Arachnophobia broke my writers block
Did you ever see the movie Arachnaphobia? Let me set the scene for you: Jeff Daniels is trapped in his basement. He's badly injured himself in a frenzied attempt to kill the granddaddy of all spiders (during which he destroys a prized wine collection and sets his basement on fire) only to find that it is crawling inexorably closer to his foot while he is trapped on the floor. It's his worst nightmare come to life, and he is literally paralyzed with fear. At the last second, he forces himself to action and catapults the furry bastard into the growing blaze in his cellar, only to have it immediately launch back through the air at him whilst aflame!
Alas, this is my life story. Minus the super poisonous deadly aspect of the spider. And the flames.
No flames so far, anyways.
I have been unreasonably afraid of spiders for as long as I can remember. Sure they are relatively small, fairly inoccuous creatures, and even if they bite you, it's generally in self defense and the bite is typically less troublesome than a mosquito or flea bite. But the fact remains that if I see one crawling across the floor, I'm climbing the furniture faster than you can say "AAAAIIIIIEEEEEYYYYAAAAA!!!!" And if a spider crawls on me? Well. I am undone for the remainder of the evening, let me tell you. It's something about the eight legs, and the way they move... Gah! Just thinking about it makes me a little sweaty and nauseous.
So it is no surprise that one cannot live one's life this way. And since the fear itself is nearly impossible to control (see Phobia), one must learn to control some *other* aspect of the situation. In my case, the most likely control subject is the spider itself. More to the point... its immediate destruction. Much like Jeff Daniels' character, it's me or the spider! The Spider MUST Die! Attempting to kill a creature that you are deathly afraid of, however, can lead to some amusing and important life lessons. (Jeff's character, as I recall, ended up moving into a condo in the city.) It was shortly after one of these recent lessons that I was inspired to write this article. Let us begin the story now, hmmm?
My day began much as it always does - with my alarm going off repeatedly until I'm able to drag myself from the bottomless pit of unconsciousness, or else find myself ejected forcibly from the bed by those members of the sleeping community that like to start their day *after* the sun rises, and don't like to hear my alarm going off every nine minutes.
My next destination is usually the shower, and this morning was no different until I arrived at the doorway of our bathroom and discovered that in order to complete my morning ritual, I would have to implicitly agree to shower directly under one of the largest, creepiest spiders that our forested mountainous neighborhood can generate. It's not just that the spider was large, black, and capable of moving at speeds that achieve escape velocity from our cat... it's that it was positioned on the highest wall of our vaulted ceilinged bathroom, and any sort of shower would certainly create enough moisture to cause it's little foot/claw/hair thingies to dislodge from the wall and then it would fall right upon me... SHUDDER/SHRIEK!!! The yellow and cheery color theme in our bathroom was a stark contrast to this predatory monster that evolved to be invisible under any leaf, and the damned thing looked like pure evil to me. There was no doubt about it - there would need to be a killing in the bathroom that morning.
I surveyed the possible methods of spider-cide, and I realized that most of them would require a ladder, quite a bit of speed and dexterity, and a steel will to overcome the freakish terror that would engulf me upon coming within striking distance of the dark beast. The trouble was that I possessed none of these resources. The ladder was in the carport - a good 50 feet from the house, which would mean clothes, shoes, and flashlight (and possibly more spiders!) The speed and dexterity would be best achieved after at least 2 hours of wakefulness (wakefulness being a state still in my hazy future at that point.) And a steel will to approach the object of my deepest fear? I think not. I only do battle with spiders when the odds are overwhelmingly in my favor. So what to do? I needed to find some handy substitutions for my missing components in this recipe of death.
To replace the ladder, I realized that I would need some other sort of extension. Brooms and mops were outside with the ladder, Staci's cane was just not long enough, and the ironing board was too heavy to wield as an anti-spider weapon. This was about the time that my sleep muddled brain hit upon the perfect solution. I would snap it with a towel! UTTERLY BRILLIANT, I thought. Because aiming a towel at a spider the size of a half dollar from three feet away, and catching the spider on the whip snap doesn't require any dexterity, right? Well... did I mention that I was still mostly asleep? It seems that I had already forgotten about the other two components to my recipe...
But I hear you saying to yourself (or the computer screen, if you are the vocal sort) "Back up there, buddy... did you say three feet away? What about these vaulted ceilings you keep talking about, and the whole title of this post? Are you seven feet tall or something?" Ha ha ha - no of course not, silly reader. I'm less than six feet tall, and my bathroom ceiling, if anything, is more like 12 feet high. This only makes your question more valid, however. The answer, of course, is that I had to do my snapping feat while standing on the toilet seat lid with my arm stretched all the way out. Now you see the logic, yes? Of course you do. You may also see why I am about to identify so closely with the basement-on-fire incident in Arachnophobia.
I might also point out, for clarity's sake, that your average low-end toilet seat is not exactly reinforced steel. It's usually painted wood with chrome coated plastic hinges. If you're lucky. And to stand on top of one while creating uneven counterweights and forces (like snapping a towel on your tippie-toes, say), is not exactly part of it's canon of recommended usage.
The worst part of all this, is that I knew all of it before I willfully engaged in my skirmish with the spider. I do not, to the best of my knowledge, have brain damage, so... argh! On with the story.
As I climbed up onto the seat lid with my chosen weapon (a beach towel, cos' they're longer), I felt the slippiness of my perch. But any thoughts of my personal danger from falling and cracking my head on the porcelain tank (or putting it through the shower door, or knocking it into the granite countertop, etc etc) were dwarfed by the Clear and Present Danger of the SPIDER, which was now at least two feet closer to me than it had been. My heart began to pound.
And so, to summarize - the ladder had been substituted for a towel and a toilet seat, the need for dexterity had been forgotten, and the fear factor had been suddenly remembered. The next sequence of events happened very, very fast. I will now endevour to give you the play-by-play:
- I snapped my towel at the spider, missing it by nearly a foot. I am, and have always been, a terrible shot with a towel snap. Making this plan all the more ridiculous.
- The spider officially became aware of my attack, and crouched. Possibly to spring onto my face!
- The towel, in utter defiance of my wishes, unexpectedly succumbed to gravity and the laws of basic physics and crashed down onto the top of our wall cabinet, which was covered with colorful glass knick knacks.
- This was simply too much for the traumatized spider, which also dropped onto the top of the cabinet.
- One of the knick knacks, a small glass vase filled with yellow soap shavings, upended its contents over the side of the cabinet and all over me, the toilet, the shower, and the floor.
- The spider, wisely, remained out of view and gathered its strength.
- The small glass vase tumbled from the cabinet straight at me.
- This was simply too much for the battle weary spider, who dashed down the wall almost faster than the vase could fall. Presumably, the spider had plans to jump onto my leg!
- I simultaneously attempted to catch the vase first with my left hand, then with my right hand, and finally with the crook of my right arm, all while trying to keep the towel from falling off of the top of the cabinet (dragging the other knick knacks with it onto the hard tile floor), also while trying to scream like an eight year old girl and leap from the toilet seat lid into another dimension (because there was nowhere else in the room to leap to).
- Oblivious to my plight, the spider continued to shoot down the wall to the floor, where it vanished into one of the small crevices. Much to my chagrin, this had been its plan from the start.
So there I stood, on top of my toilet, holding a towel pressed against the top of my wall cabinet with one hand, cradling a glass vase in the crook of my other arm, with yellow soap shavings covering my head and raining down from my shoulders onto the floor, heaving in a dead panic of fear and adrenaline mixed with embarrassment. Truly, not my best start to a day. At least I didn't break the vase... or my neck.
All this for a spider. Which escaped. Sigh.
OH IF ONLY this had been an isolated incident. Alas, I have a long history of this sort of thing, which may inadvertantly prove that spiders are actually dangerous. At least to me. A catalogue of a few highlights:
- SITUATION: Medium-sized spider walking across the outside of the car windshield.
- MY REACTION: I hit the gas, driving dangerously fast in order to sweep it off the car.
- THE RESULT: The spider hunkers down, and then works it's way around onto the top of the car. When I finally stop, I am afraid to get out of the vehicle.
- SITUATION: Large spider crawls out from behind my car's rearview mirror late at night while I am driving up the Grapevine (google it if you don't know it), anchors a thread, and begins to descend into the darkness of the car.
- MY REACTION: I go clinically insane. I swerve across 2 or 3 lanes, nearly hitting the side of the mountain and god knows how many other motorists, then in my panic I forget to put my foot back on the gas and nearly stall out in my new lane as my car slows to a near stop on the steep grade.
- THE RESULT: The spider escapes into the darkness of the car and is never found. I hypervente for the remainder of the journey, and can only complete the trip by sitting on one of my legs (so that it's not where the spider might be) and periodically hitting and scratching at the other leg (just in case the spider is, you know, walking on me.
- SITUATION: An incredibly large spider inexplicably ends up camped out on the butt-side of the crotch of my jeans.
- MY REACTION: Frozen panic followed by begging and whimpering.
- RESULT: I think I blocked it from my mind. My wife somehow dislodged the spider, and I'm fairly certain I didn't lose control of my bowels. Mostly, though, I just don't remember. Sheer terror.
- SITUATION: Whilst at a social event, a small spider crawls down my face, anchors a thread to my nose, and launches itself towards the floor.
- MY REACTION: I hit myself in the face, followed by smacking every part of my body, and scratching all over, under my clothes where possible.
- RESULT: The spider is crushed, along with any chance of social acceptance. This whole exchange was in the same room with eight other adults, only a couple of which knew me. However, if more of them had known me, I might have stripped naked, run outside, and put the garden hose on myself at full blast. They should be grateful!
- SITUATION: Tick jumps on my face in the bedroom. (Ticks, it should be remembered, are arachnids.)
- MY REACTION: I hit myself so hard in the face that I see sparkles and can't hear for a second.
- RESULT: The tick falls lifeless into my hand. Lifeless, did I say? No. Merely stunned. As I stare, it starts to wiggle and right itself. IN MY HAND!!! I panic and throw it, unfortunately right onto my wife, who is sitting on our bed. Lovely. And while her fear of arachnids does not surpass mine, she's still not too keen on the thought (or indeed reality) of a tick on her. I find it on her back, and have to pry it off with my bare hands before it digs in (this is called love, folks, and don't you forget it!) It squirms between my fingers and I almost faint. Somehow... I get it outside. Never could kill the bastard - it was armor freaking plated. Even writing about this makes me itchy all over. *SHUDDER*
One Final Note- These stories of horrorification and embarrassment are, as I said, the highlights of disaster in what might otherwise be called a successful campaign of arachnid extermination. I am usually able to swallow hard and just smash a spider to bits with my shoe or a piece of tissue, and I've gotten more able to do this over the years, despite my aversion. And it is with little remorse that I will admit to any spider fans out there, that I will never in a million billion years put a spider on a plate or under a glass and put them out of the house alive. No amount of time, therapy, hypnosis, or PETA hate mail will convince me to do this. And I know that my phobia is actually quite mild compared to others - I do not wish to belittle the plight of severe arachnophobes that are left unable to cope with spiders in any way, shape or form. Phobias are serious, and in some cases crippling to daily life. If you've ever known someone who is terrified of bees, or spiders, or ants, or water, or anything else... don't laugh or ridicule. Sympathize. I make light of it here and make fun of myself, but it's a terrible affliction which is very difficult (if not impossible) to overcome.
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