I've been on Spring Break.
I took my laptop with me and never even opened it. Not once. Didn't write blog posts. Didn't read blog posts. Just spring breaked.
We started our Spring Break with a volleyball tournament, like we've started many a spring break over the past few years. Nice weekend, spent at the lake house with my parents, who were able to attend the games. We took Ruby and Pete with us (to the lake house, NOT to the volleyball games). My son rode to Branson with me and Emma, then went back to school on Sunday with my husband, who had driven down separately. Emma and I stayed an extra night, leaving on Monday morning (because we were too lazy to pack up Sunday and go, because, well, Spring Break). We were toodling our way down the interstate in a moderate amount of traffic (including a tractor-trailer directly behind us) when my daughter pointed to a spot near the visor above her and said, "Spider."
"What?" I asked.
"SPIDER!" she shouted, and I looked at the spot where she was pointing and, indeed, there was a GINORMOUS SPIDER lowering itself on a silk thread from the visor. (I have no exact measurement, but I estimate it to have been about 3/8 of an inch across, legs and all, and HEY, YOU DEFINE GINORMOUS SPIDER IN YOUR TERMS AND I'LL DEFINE THEM IN MINE.)
And the two cats in carriers in the backseat (who were facing each other, because I thought that would be fun for them on a two hour car ride, seeing as how much Pete hates Ruby and all) started to yowl.
I reached into the backseat and grabbed the first thing I could find that might work as a weapon, which was a jacket that my husband had forgotten at the lake house and we threw in the car with us. I brought the jacket upwards and smashed it into the roof of the car next to the visor. But when I brought the jacket back down, the spider (who appears to have been a quicker thinker than we were and had shinnied back up his silk thread) slid right back down again from his spot behind the visor.
The cats yowled.
I brought the jacket back up again, squashing it against the roof of the car and holding it there. When I lowered the jacket, it was evident the eradication of the spider was successful (I squished it with the jacket - sorry about your jacket, dear).
The cats yowled.
And it was all accomplished while driving 70 mph (okay, maybe a little more than that) down the interstate in traffic.
The Book of Secret Rules allows that, pursuant to Rule 14.6(c), surviving a spider attack while hurtling along the freeway counts as a full list of thankfuls. Rule 14.6(c)(ii) states that no one shall be Judgy McJudges about the killing of spiders, especially humongous, deadly ones.
Thankful for anything? You know you are. Link up below.
A Fly on our (Chicken Coop) Wall, Amycake and the Dude, Considerings, Finding Ninee, Getting Literal, I Want Backsies, The Meaning of Me, Thankful Me, Uncharted, The Wakefield Doctrine
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