You know, I'm really, really hoping to make it up to heaven. Like, seriously.
Not gonna lie (that may work against me, after all); I don't exactly relish the thought of checking out any time soon. However, I can honestly tell you that I'm trying and trying and trying to live life right. Not to mention praying and praying and praying some more that, in the end, it'll be a one-way ticket upward for old PK.
And, of course, I, like the other humans tooling around the planet at present, don't know exactly what to expect when I (hopefully!) make it there someday preferably not in the not-so-near future. I digress.
This is, in fact, a topic about which my son and I have waxed philosophic on many occasions. We muse over such things as: Will there be food? Music? (Based on various scriptural references to banquets and choirs, we feel it's a yes on both of those counts.) Will we need to sleep? Will we look the same as we do here on earth and / or will we ever remain the age we were upon arrival?
No matter. After all, the biblical descriptions are literally divine, ergo I'm pretty confident it's going to be fab.
And, among the 40 bazillion things I'm curious to discover in the hereafter, I admit to having one rather burning question for Him: What was up with the insects?
I'm not kidding, people, I'm really baffled and want to know.
I guess it wouldn't be such a forefront thought if not for the fact that I have killed eight spiders inside my house since Aug. 21. How do I know the date? Well, that's the day it all started, my friends - the Kimerer Spider Conspiracy Theory of 2013.
Laugh all you want, but I know they're minions for the guy who runs the other eternal spot (you know, the hot one) - and I know they're out to get me.
Why else have they descended on my crib?
It all started innocently enough, with that first guy I caught peeping at me in the bathroom as I got ready for work that fateful summer morning. There he was, leisurely making his way down the door jam when he stopped to focus his eight eyes onto my two and say, "What up, terrified homo sapien?" I believe my exact response was something to the effect of "Abada bookala shmoshinig AAAAAACK!"
"Eh, whatever," said he, scurrying along his morning commute.
As scenes from "Arachnophobia" flashed in my mind's eye and the story my pal June Marshall of Liberty told me about a coworker's spider bite (that resulted in a burst welt ON HER FACE out of which dozens of baby spiders poured) I looked for a weapon worthy of such epic battle. Instead, I settled for the biggest shoe I could find. And, on attempt No. 7, BAM!
"Sorry, man. Think of these four walls as the badlands. Do not enter. Tell all your little hideous, hairy, eight-legged friends," I said with only the tiniest hint of remorse. They do eat smaller insects, after all.
Even so just the thought of him dropping silently down from the ceiling and sliding, unnoticed, into my mop-haired mane ... I mean, for the love of all that is holy, he could be in there rooting around amongst the mousse and hair color remnants for hours on end before I even had an inkling he was scoping out a nest location and - GOD FORBID! - having his wife lay eggs up there!
"Homina homina homina hoof!" I screamed, shuddering at the thought and swatting wildly into the air at imagined underworld underlings spinning nearly invisible silken webs inside my ears and down my back. I flailed around like that for about four days (or, maybe 30 seconds in real time) when suddenly, along came his brother and freaked out Kyle's mother and frightened Mrs. Kimerer away.
So, I did what any rational woman would do - I called Kerry and ranted and raved for about two hours about the need for an evacuation, a fumigation and a possible relocation.
Though he claims to have sprayed some safe-for-people-and-dogs-but-lethal-for-spiders juice around the perimeter of our house, I have since found six more sprites, one of which was perched atop my son's swim bag. Too far. Not cool. This is war, spider folk.
I hope the Big Guy won't hold it against me
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist and unabashed hater of spiders. Contact her with suggestions on how to kill the little buggers at firstname.lastname@example.org.