In our family, we each had different spider encounter roles. My dad was the designated never-sees-them-and-always-has-hands-in-crevices-in-shed-constantly-getting-bit-by-them-and-almost-dying person. My mom was the Save The Spiders, Save The World hippie spider activist who named them, spoke to them, protected them and took them outside safely on pieces of paper while narrating their journey, person. My younger brother was the blood curdling screaming, flailing, throwing objects, blind with terror, using any chemical he could get his hands on to destroy them person. I was the Spider Killer Ninja Death Dealer In Chief. I killed silently while mom's back was turned and left the room before she new it. I waited three days to execute "Harry" (she named them all Harry) that had spun a web and taken up residence in our groovy assed 70's amber glass & brass floor lamp. She thought he'd just moved away.
I killed him so deftly I left the web entirely intact and unmolested. Not a clue.
My brother would call out for me in his "It's a fucking spider I need you to kill in my room but we gotta do this on the QT so mom doesn't order us to leave it be, to catch and release it unharmed, or lecture us about how it eats mosquitoes and saves us from malaria" voice. And I would put on my cape and vanquish the fiend while he waited at a safe distance in my room.
My mother said after I moved out, my brother took to hairspraying them! I mean, this was 1986-87, he used Industrial Hair Band Strength Aqua Net. I bet the ones that lived looked fabulous. And I bet they lived in a permanently lacquered Cyborg state for decades...
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