Seven tiny ballerinas, lined up at the barre, ready to do their tondues. Pink, fluffy tutus, shiny buns, impossibly small leotards, on three year old bodies.
"Miss Melyssa?" I hear. Actually, she probably said "Miss Melyse?" Because my boss's name is Elyse and they tend to combine us. Like Brangelina.
"Yes, Gwen, do you need to go potty?" I stop, mid tondue.
"LOOK!" She points at her pink tights.
My eagle eyes see:
But what I REALLY see and I'm sure she does too, is:
Not fearing a bit for my safety, my adrenaline kicked in.
|Armor is very slimming.|
With the strength of ten men, plus two, I remove the hideous monster from her leg and smash it to smithereens with my ballet shoe. It is easily larger than my shoe, and the pink is covered in spider goo and blood and gore. *
"You killed my spider!" Her eyes are big as saucers and her voice quavers.
The rest of the ballerinas look at me as if I just put five rounds of bullets in Minnie Mouse or throttled the life out of Mrs Claus.
Evidently, they make ballerinas tougher these days.
I apologized for saving their lives and we went back to tondues.
P.S. You have no idea what I went through googling images of spiders for you. Really. I deserve some major chocolate, decadent coffee drinks, blogging awards, or copious amounts of Merlot for what I do for you three readers.