Remember that thing I told you, about how he drives like his father? Well, like almost nothing I write here, I conveyed that information because it was important.*
Husband, along with his many adorable quirks, has a crazy-making, fascist obsession with the lights. The very idea that, somewhere in the house, a light is on with nobody around to see it makes him twitch. This is especially baffling for me because, as he himself admits, any given light bulb draws a ridiculously tiny amount of power. Seriously, my choice to leave the light on over the basement steps for a few hours costs us maybe 1.5 cents every night.
He’s done the math.
Husband recites these facts to me while he goes around, compulsively turning off lights accompanied by my eyerolling, tsk-ing, and occasional cries of “we still need that one!” He even, on several occasions, breaks down and tells me the story of how he had this exact conversation with his father many times, as his father went around the house asking, “Is anyone in the kitchen? Then turn the lights off! Is anyone in the living room? Then turn the lights off!” Nevermind that nobody was ever in those rooms because the family was trailing helplessly behind him, guided by flashlights and the familiar outrage.
One night, when Husband was teenage-ish, his father popped into a room where Husband was quietly reading under the light of a single lamp. His father said, “Oh, you’re in here!” all surprised and pleased that someone was actually using a light, and frugally at that. Then, after a brief conversation, he said “I’ll let you get back to your book” and turned to leave, shutting the light off as he went.
I have heard this story several times. It is the story of how crazy my father-in-law is. It is the story my husband tells while he tries to talk himself out of turning off every light in the world, even though he knows I can’t stand a dim room and so am compelled to turn lights on everywhere I go. (Dim = dingy for me, I can’t explain why)
So, with all that in mind, let’s discuss this morning, shall we?
I have been assured by many people, the internet, and the most terrifying movie ever that spiders do not enjoy moist environments. Therefore, there is no reason that I should find one IN MY SHOWER. Certainly not after people have been using it.
Husband took two showers yesterday, I took one, and I just hopped into the shower this morning only to find myself face to face with an eight-legged house demon.
You know what? The word “literally” is liberally overused. My method of shower exfiltration can best be described as a reverse bunny hop maneuver.
Standing there, buck-nekkid and dripping on the shower rug, I shouted for my husband – who, to his credit, came quickly but then asked me to help him find it.
Then I had to remind him to close the lid so the horrid thing couldn’t jump back out while it was being flushed.
Because they DO that.
Toilet spiders. It’s a thing.
Look it up, I’m not your damn search engine.
Oh, and on his way out? He turned off the goddamned lights on me.
* We literally cannot continue unless you accept my definition of important.