"THERE WAS A WHACKING GREAT SPIDER IN MY ROOM THAT JUST TRIED TO KILL ME."
"Yikes! Did you destroy it?"
"It is currently trapped under a bowl and a puddle of Raid," I informed The Boy shortly thereafter via Skype.
"I am sorry. I wish I were there. I would kill it for you." He proffered.
Look, I know.
I know in this day and age I am supposed to pick up a copy of Euell Gibbson's Stalking The Wild Asparagus and squash the fellow with little more than a sniff and flexed bicep; or that I should broil him in a sumptuous array of port wine, strawberries, and cucumber. Or array myself in appropriate hunting attire and refuse to let the little rapscallions get the better of me. Stiff upper lip, being British, and all.
Then I remember that I am NOT British and there is not a single reason petitioning to which I should be. Which is as British as you can get for saying I AM AN EFFING AMERICAN MUTT, EIGHTCRAWLERS, AND I AM TERRIFIED OF YOU.
The true American response would be to find several compulsively-loaded guns, wait around corners, and go out blazing only to inexplicably win through because Truth, Justice, and the American Way always prevail. Barring that, I could fall in a hail of ineffable justice-free wrong-person-running-the-show-and-that'll-show-them hail. Since really it's me versus Shelob in there, I have come to realize that I am a crappy American and a worse Bearer of the Ring. Either of those require sense of self, a willingness to persevere. Me? I may have given myself some sort of heavy poisoning from leaving that eight legged predator in half an inch of poison.
I want to have the stiff upper British lip. Believe me. You sound so much more erudite quoting Chaucer in Middle English with a Modern British accent. Frankly, you sound more erudite yelling at the milkman about his current delivery in a British accent than you do American; it moves from vulgar to sublime.
But I have yet to meet an arachnid of Charlotte's composition, who no doubt would have embraced the bicoastal thrills of international interaction, but probably also would not have died by drowning in half an inch of Raid.
Either way, I am so not taking to my bed tonight. You win, arachnid. The field is yours.