Little White Lies

It’s almost 3 a.m. and I’m in my cleaning groove. I’m a night bloomer, Reader.  I had a cuppa coffee around 6:00 p.m. tonight and, well, now here we are.  Which is fine. I’ve got a weekend filled with activities beginning at 9 a.m. in the morning. Which – let’s do the math – is only 6 short hours away.

I’m trying to wrap up the cleaning before my company arrives.

It’s not actually so much “company” as it is a contractor, coming in to get some measurements and whatnot, as I’ve got Joanna-Gaines-Fixer-Upper-Kitchen-Itis. It’s a real thing, Reader.  I figured it can’t hurt anything to just talk to the man, see what my options are with my starter-life budget.

I feel a little asshole-y because my kitchen is really fine, just fine, and the nicest kitchen I’ve ever had, actually. Except for my early ’90s blue countertops. Those are something special. However, they are in fine shape, just fine. But I’m just seeing the man, so stop judging me, Reader, sheesh, I’m not a House Hunter who has to rip out her perfectly good granite because she just doesn’t like the swirl of the stone.

Or maybe I’m exactly like that. It’s tough to call.

So I’m getting an estimate, seeing what my options are for a little re-design. Just chatting, an easy little convo that costs nothing. That’s what I’m saying to myself in my brain. Except it does cost something, and that something is me cleaning at 3 a.m. in the morning instead of getting a restless night of sleep after hours and hours of Forensic Files.

I did have a jumpy moment whilst cleaning the kitchen, and it had nothing to do with a Forensic-Files-Style Bad Guy, unless that you would call that scary albino spider walking on my black refrigerator a scary bad guy.

I turned around from wiping down the counters and saw him and screamed, not unlike probably how the victims on Forensic Files scream at some point.

The spider froze in his tracks.

I tried to comfort myself by telling me, “He’s more afraid of you than you are of him,” except he probably wasn’t almost pissing his pink pajama pants and doing a little hop-skip to the other side of the room.

I kept a close eye on him and pondered how to handle this unexpected home invader. My first thought was “do nothing and he will be in my agape-mouth when I’m finally fast asleep and snoring.” So I had to do something.

I called My Mister, who was working, and inquired as to when he would be home. Five minutes was the answer, and I couldn’t trust that timeline so I went to get the vacuum. The albino spider was beginning to walk across the fridge and climbed up into a card I had magneted on the fridge.

By the time I came back armed with the vacuum, he had disappeared.

I vacuumed in all the crevices in the kitchen on the off chance he would be hiding somewhere. And now I’m telling myself that of course I sucked him up and he’s safely inside that filthy canister, dying a really rude death, which truth be told I feel a little bit bad about because “All God’s Creatures” except those fucking creatures need to get their own damn house and stay out of mine if they want to live. They’ve already gotten their pound of flesh from me.

My rational brain (do I have one, you’re asking yourself which is also more judge-y, Reader) knows I didn’t get him – probably not – and when I wake up coughing later it’ll be because an albino spider is stuck in my throat. But the other side is telling me one of my eight three cats will surely get him if he’s wandering around. Because they’re good little hunters and they will protect their mama.  Right, Reader??

Right.

The little lies I tell myself comfort me, so let’s go with it. The mean, bad, scary albino spider is gone, girl.