I am happy to report that the creature is dead. Jason is a most excellent spider slayer; when we ventured down to the laundry room together after work, spidey wasn't where I had last seen him. Spiders seldom stay put. Knowing that I may never have washed socks again if Shelob was still down there, Jason rustled around the area where the thing was last seen and sure enough he got it to come out.
"I don't think that was as big as the bathtub spider," he said after smacking, squishing, and flushing my nemesis. "Though he was awfully furry."
Sure you don't think it was that big. 'Cause it was all curled up in wolf-spider defense mode when you saw it. Don't belitte my fear, dude. The thing was enormous.
I had really been hoping he would get more freaked out and confirm my fear and loathing. You know the Sylvester and Tweety cartoon where Tweety somehow gets a hold of a potion that makes him blow up into a huge yellow monster, and Sylvester and his son are trying to get him, but every time Sylvester goes into the room alone he sees Monster Tweety and just walks back to his son, stuttering and gray and scared to death? That's kinda what I was hoping Jason would do. But alas, he is outwardly calm from years of pest control.
Which brings me to a question, you manly men who read the blog and kill the spiders in your own homes: Are you as afraid as we are and just try to act brave to fulfill your role as testosterone-y superheroes saving your damsels in distress? Or are your wives just a bunch of freaks?
Tell us the truth. We won't judge so long as you keep smushing.