“Is that a spider!?”
I interrupted my conversation with Brady to yell and point from the comfort of the couch. Glowing in the light from the recessed ceiling lamp, a thin eight-legged intruder dangled. After quickly blowing at it (what did I hope to accomplish, except that it curled up it’s legs and swung at me) I ran to the other room. “Keep an eye on it!” I yelled to Brady. I spotted the vacuum but my other son spotted the fake rifle sitting next to it and laughed. “Whaddya gonna do Mom? Shoot it?”
“No,” I rolled my eyes. “I’m gonna suck it!”
So, in honor of the spider who’s life I had to snuff out with the long end of the vacuum cleaner, I give you last year’s lovable spider column “Miss Muffet and Me” just in case you missed it the first time around.
By Wendy Pierman Mitzel
4/9/13
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and last night I heard it: “MOM! There’s a spider in the bathroom! Come quick, kill it.”
If I was the character Fern in the classic “Charlotte’s Web,” poor Charlotte wouldn’t have had enough time to finish the “SOME PIG” message before I took a shoe to her. I am not a fan of the spider species. Just writing about it makes me twitchy.
I’m pretty sure spiders are on the hunt for me. They are waiting for me to enter the garage, the basement, remove the laundry from the floor and scurry out.
Any time I enter a room, I scan the walls. I assume any sort of black spot or dark mark is an eight-legged enemy checking me out.
Like a old-lady in Cadillac, I am constantly on the defensive. If we happen to be talking and you look over my shoulder and say “Oh my God” I will automatically assume there is a spider right behind me. If you then tell me not to move, I will assume there is an arachnid on my shoulder having a laugh.
I’m unsure if this phobia is nature or nurture, my mother has the same reaction to the things. I grew up watching her scream for my dad to come to her rescue. Even better was watching her take a broom to a cringing character in a ceiling corner.
After getting married, my then-husband tired of the “there’s a spider!” game and I was “gently encouraged” to kill them on my own.
My boyfriend discovered if he wants to save one he better capture and get it outside before I catch wind of it.
Of course, first I have to make a spectacle of my spider stand-offs.
Boyfriend found it particularly fun to listen to me yelling and begging for help when once I almost put my hand on a juicy, hairy one in the laundry room sink. Having secured its position on the white porcelain basin said spider cornered me in the room thus forcing my hand – literally – to smush, screech, cringe and deposit in the toilet, apologizing profusely. “I’m sorry,” I addressed Mr. Spider. “But really, next time don’t let me see you.”
And then I did the “Eew Eew Eew” dance.
Now, see here, I am a lover of many things. I will scoop up a lady bug and put her to fresh air freedom. I will steer a moth out the front door . I’ve rescued bunnies in shoeboxes. I am the first to pull over if I see a stray dog in the road.
But so help you if you are a spider. Stay outside and I will give you your space. But come into mine and you are toast.
Unless, of course, I miss the squish like I did last night, sending my daughter to slam the door shut behind her and tuck a towel under to prevent spider-friend from crawling out for a late night visit to her bedroom.
Until next time, Mr. Spider.
I love this read…..