Okay, this is it. The long-awaited "Spider in my Window" story.

Today's Cereal: Golden Grahams
Current Mood: Creeped out
The Boy's New Word of the Day: Play


I hate spiders.

I REALLY hate spiders.

I can’t remember when this started; it’s always just been. I remember when I was first traumatized by a spider. I was probably 10 or 11, maybe older, and I was reading in bed by the light of my flashlight. I felt something tickle my face and I thought it was a strand of my hair. It wasn’t. I don’t think I have to finish the story. Let’s just say, screaming was done, tears were shed, testimonies were strengthened. My testimony of hating spiders, that is.

Our first apartment when Kitt and I were married was a run-down pile of shit--I mean, bricks--that was too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, and FULL of spiders. Big ones, that strangely all had only seven legs. Kitt would often come home to a bowl set upside-down on the floor, and he didn’t even have to ask. He knew it was his duty as the man of the house to 1) please me in bed, 2) call any repairman we might have to deal with, and 3) kill any spiders that I had trapped under a bowl but was too scared to get close enough to kill. The spiders were so bad that I frequently had nightmares of them. I would thrash around in bed, cry, scream, and in-general panic, until Kitt woke me up. I think it must have scared him at first to see me like this, but he soon learned to just turn on the light and I would wake up and calm down. It finally took my brother-in-law with a degree in psychology to help control the nightmares. He taught me to mentally turn anything that frightened me in my dreams into something I like. It was a valuable lesson-- to this day I still turn nightmares into kittens.

Hate ‘em, hate ‘em, HATE ‘EM! I friggin’ hate spiders!

Why, then, is there one living in my kitchen window?

It’s one of those creepy ones that spins its web into a tunnel which it hides in whenever you get too close. When I first discovered it, I tried to suck it up with my dustbuster. I thought it had worked, but all I had done was get rid of the web. By the afternoon, the web was back, and there sat the spider again. Smirking at me, I think. I tried this several times, but it always came back. I started to admire its tenacity, and so I let it stay. “One more day,” I thought, “and then I’ll have Kitt take care of it.”

One morning as I was washing off The Boy’s high chair tray, I flicked water at the spider in a hate-filled tantrum, angry that it was still there and still scaring me. That was when it happened. Droplets of water glistened on the web, and the spider slowly came out of its tunnel… and drank the water. I watched it drink some of the water.

Kitt has told me of how his wise mother shared with him the secret to getting someone to love you. The secret is to get them to do something for you. Service will eventually equal love. I saw this in action that morning.

I’m not saying that because I gave the spider something to drink that I love it now. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. But as I watched it drink that water, I was struck by how…how living it was. It was a living creature. And I thought to myself, “Its not bothering me. It hasn’t left the window sill yet. And it’s probably eating all the fruit flies that have been annoying me since I let that banana go too long.” This was quickly followed up with a, “But the minute it leaves the window, it is DEAD!”

A few days later I managed to catch one of the afore-mentioned fruit flies. I wondered if I could get it stuck in the spider’s web, and what would happen. I took the cup I had the fly in over to the window, and I lifted my hand off it. The fly immediately flew straight into the web, and before I could even BLINK the spider had shot out of its tunnel and caught that fly. It carried it back to the entrance of its little hidey-hole, and sat there with it. Looking at me, so I thought. Maybe thanking me? Probably wondering what the catch was. It ate that fly. I was disgusted. But fascinated.

I’ve since fed it again. Now I look for opportunities to catch little insects. I’m a little sickened with myself.

Kitt teases me about it. He’s asked me what I’ve named it. “No names!” I’ve insisted. “Once I name it, it will be a pet. I WON’T have a spider for a pet. I hate spiders.” I try hard not to think of it even having a gender. Because it’s gonna go. Eventually. If it gets any bigger, I won’t be able to stand looking at it. And, as Kitt reminded me, we might end up with an eggsack. That’s all I need, a zillion tiny spiders with tenacity and an inherited will to live. Nope, that Bad Boy is a GONER.

Soon.

I think.