Now lookit: I am not an entomologist. I am not an arachnid wrangler. I only really like gross stuff from a distance (and sometimes, not even then).
And yet I have made peace with the Reluctant Menagerie that is my house. (Reluctant on two counts: I’m sure my multilegged roommates don’t much care for me herding them—and all things considered, I’d rather not have to.)
I can capture a cricket in a glass—almost always without accidentally tearing off an appendage—and toss it into the Great Outdoors while talking on the phone. I merely roll my eyes at the daddy longlegs that seem so fond of me. And I can easily pretend the nearly microscopic eight-legged neighbors that scamper across my windowsills aren’t really there.
But I have to draw the line somewhere!
To be perfectly frank, if I ran the universe (feel free to sigh with relief here), I probably would have thought, “Now, that Elisabeth, she’s had quite a week already, what with the bike incident and the trashcan tackling her in the wee small hours. Probably we can just let her be for a while.”
And yet instead, the other evening I walked into my kitchen to find a Perfectly Enormous Six-Legged Intruder sitting on my cabinet door as if it had every right to be there. Since I didn’t have any real bug spray (at the time—I have since invested), I had to use the wasp spray I needed last summer, and God knows what they put in that because that little guy started quivering so hard I thought it was going to explode, and within seconds it just lay there in the pool of poison that had once been my kitchen floor.
Bad enough, I’m sure you’ll agree. But this morning was just the last straw. All I wanted to do was go out the back door to the back garage door to start some laundry, and I hadn’t even swung the door all the way open when I saw a Super Humongous Shiny Red Spider the Very Exact Size of My Head scampering up the Massive Web it had decided to install right outside my back door.
Seriously... the size of my head.
After the screaming subsided, I calmly walked out the front door and opened the big garage door and proceeded to do my laundry. Then I documented the Eight-Legged Intruder for your edutainment. Then I got out the broom and began windmilling. The Intruder lay on my back step, as though begging mutely for mercy. But where arachnids are concerned, I have none. (I no longer even hesitate to consider that my victims may be related to Charlotte. She was a respectful spider, anyway. She stayed in the barn¸ for Pete’s sake.) I smashed it good.
Thus endeth my tale. And, I rather hope, thus endeth my weirdo adventures for the week. I mean, seriously, is The Universe just feeling that bored? Isn’t it time for someone else to lock themselves out of the house and have to climb on top of a shrub and rip open a screen to get back inside? I should think so.