Because OCD trumps arachnophobia.

The Fiance and I are headed to visit The Family, when suddenly it becomes quite evident that there is a SPIDER crawling across the sun visor, about 3 inches from my face, in the passenger seat.

A SPIDER. IN THE CAR. THREE INCHES FROM MY FACE. DAMMIT.

Seeing as though The Fiance is busy, you know, DRIVING down the freeway, he can't save me, so I must fend for myself. The horror. So, I just flip the visor up toward the windshield - and poof! - all gone. Can't see him anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. My nervous system was immediately at ease.

The drive continues.

And then itsy-bitsy, man-eating spider crawls from underneath the visor and heads across the windshield. Wise guy, eh? Sneaking out of my trap. However, I still felt mildly at ease, seeing as though the spider was headed to the DRIVER'S SIDE, and away from me and my heart-stopping fear of all creatures big and small with more than four legs. And especially ones with eight.

"Um, there's a spider on the windshield," The Fiance says, getting a little squirmy.

"I know."

"Get him off the windshield."

My response is something of a bewildered, Who, me? look of shock. A spider? Me? Get it off? The windshield? "No way."

Meanwhile, the spider begins to crawl along the door frame, HELLO, like 4 inches from The Fiance's left cheek. He's in control of the vehicle, holding steady at a good 72 mph. It's dark. And raining. And, ohmygod, a spider is about to be the death of us, which seems logical to me because the only reasonable way I see out of this situation is to send the vehicle careening into the ditch rather than my having to actually come into contact with said spider and save the day.

"You should probably just crash."

The Fiance, beginning to squirm just a bit more, yet still gripping the steering wheel, shot the idea down. And the spider? Getting closer still. Still panicking.

"Give me something to kill it with. Now." He's sounding urgent.

I, still mildly calm because, hi, Charlotte was spinning her web on HIS side of the car, not mine, began foraging my purse for a method of spider destruction.

Ah-ha! A receipt. We have been saved! My hand extends toward his, which is desperately seeking salvation, when, CRAP, I rip the receipt right back out of his greedy, spider-fearing palm.

"WAIT!" I shriek in panic, more so than the spider-induced panic. "I have to balance my checkbook first!"

Blink. Blink-blink.

If ever The Fiance is to rescind his offer of marriage, it is now. A spider, now about to suck out his brains, is looming in his presence while we're hauling down the freeway in a rainstorm, and I, with means of salvation, find it more important to write the $12.95 amount from my haircut receipt into my checkbook.

I search for a pen. Pretty, it's purple ink! Flip through the pages in my checkbook to the appropriate page, write in $12.95, do the math, balance my account, and put pen and check book back into my purse. Mom taught me well.

Blink. Blink-blink.

The Fiance still wants to end my short life.

"The receipt! Now!"

Oh, right.

He tears the receipt from my hand, squashes the spider and hurls the crumpled remains of my haircut purchase and the spider into the back seat. Problem solved.

The spider was gone. And more importantly, my checkbook was balanced.