As you may have guessed, my dear ever-traveling husband is "on the road again" leaving me alone with an ailing kitty and a pile of laundry that has consumed the floor of my downstairs kitchen. Everywhere - as far as the eye can see is piles upon piles of dirty clothes courtesy of J.Crew, Banana Republic, Tommy Hilfiger, I.N.C. and Polo.
I sigh and grab onto the pile of clothes closest to the door to begin the cumbersome sorting process. Suddenly a small brown spider lunges at me from the folds of a Tagless Tee.
I scream like a banshee on helium - nearly shattering the twin floor-to-ceiling display cases filled with Simpson's figurines to my right. Flinging the shirt to the ground, I pick up the nearest object and start spraying the spider, who will, from now on, be nice and starched.
He's still scurrying like "Frosty the Spiderman" when I plop the can on top of him and yell at Harry to come help me.
That was four days ago.
I had honestly forgotten about my arachna-nemesis - until I went to iron a shirt for work this morning - and realized that my spray starch was being used as a cruel and unusual prison.
I ended up at work with an unperfectly pressed shirt.
Somehow - it's Harry's fault....
I decided to exact my revenge when laundry day continues this evening. Yup, I, the killer of "spiders gone wild", will "forget" to use fabric softener on his "man panties."
The vows were "love, honor and cherish" I didn't hear a thing about "thou shalt provide non-spider-cleaning-upper hubby with non-scratchy underwear"!