The Spider that Went for a Ride

It's uncanny; if I park on the west side of the parking lot, I always have to clear out spider webs built up between my car and the one next to it and hope that the spider still isn't present. But if I park on the east side, no spiders or webs. Do you think I ever get home in time to catch the east-side spots? Of course not.

I'd learned my lesson early on last year. Orb weavers season begins in August and can extend well into winter here since we don't have frosts. Super. One morning last fall, walking to my car with my head down, finding the right key on the ring, I passed between my car and the next as my body pulled a huge spider web from its moorings, coating my face and arms in silk. I screamed in as undignified a manner as you might imagine and, somehow, it seemed logical that I chuck my purse as far away from me as possible. What probably looked to be a seizure, I high-kneed it to the middle of the parking lot and used my hands to wipe off every bit of skin exposed to the offending web.
When I finally regained some composure, I spotted my purse, which had bounced off the bank of bushes in front of my car, spilling all its contents, including my broken jar of apple sauce trailing out of it by the driver's door. I hugged my body and couldn't stop the sob that rose in my throat from the sheer injustice of being assaulted by my greatest fear before 8 A.M.

But this isn't about last autumn.
This is about yesterday.

Objects in the Mirror May Be Closer than They Appear
I groggily shuffled to my car yesterday morning and after spending a blissful five days away from my home and car, several large webs had built up between my car and the one next to it which, evidently, had taken the weekend off too. I searched for lingering spiders in the webs and seeing none, began to swipe and kick at the vacant webs making girly grunts of disgust as I went. I finally cleared the path between the cars and approached the driver's door. I inserted a pen into the space between the handle of my car and the car door where spiders absolutely love to hide, clicked it around to make sure it was safe to open, and got in. The interior of a car is almost always safe from spiders, sharply contrasting with the outside which seems to attract every one from a mile away.
I started the car and began my groggy but short drive to work. I checked my right rearview mirror to change lanes and gasped as I noticed a huge spider right in the middle of it. When I came to a stop light I moved the lever that adjusts that outside mirror from the inside. I handled the button like a joystick but the spider just lazily crawled to the corner of the mirror and picked at its web nonchalantly.
I was pissed. I hate spiders. And I hate mornings. I revved my engine and took off as fast as my in-line four engine would let me. I took my eyes off the road to watch the spider go flying off the mirror but not off the car! Connected by an invisible thread it was flying next to the window making the faintest "tap...tap" as the wind whipped at it, knocking it against the car. It was big enough that I could watch its eight legs flail behind its bulbous body. When I reached a stop light, I stopped as hard as I could, safely. It smacked against the mirror with another faint tap and began scrambling wildly all around the perimeter of the mirror building a stronger web as quickly as it could.
(NOTE: this is not an actual photograph of the event, it's a reenactment on paper as produced by the witness.)
I admit, I was a little impressed. I almost wondered if I should drive a little less erratically and just let the little stowaway have a free ride. I imagined getting pulled over and trying to explain to the police that I was trying to lose the big spider creeping me out on the rear view mirror outside my car. The light turned and I drove as I usually would and the spider again, went flying though not as wildly as before. When I came to the next stop light it swung forward under and over the mirror landing comically with another tap on the top of the mirror. It slowly dragged its body back to the middle of the mirror and sat still for a moment. It wandered a little to the left, changed its mind. A little to the right, stopped. Then suddenly, it just dropped. I lunged for the passenger seat to see where it went, barely keeping my foot on the brake, but it was gone. It had just said "Forget this noise!" and let go.
Truth be told, I hope it died. However, if it did miraculously survive, I imagine he had a pretty good story to tell the other spiders about how one morning it went for a ride.

I didn't even realize it, but last week's "Five Great Things Friday" was my 100th post! So thanks for reading!

Yeah, this is why I can't wait to go to heaven...

This charming fellow (I choose to call him Marvin), is showing us a bird spider. So called because it feeds on, that's right, birds. A spider big enough to eat birds. Aren't birds supposed to eat spiders? Try not to lose too much sleep, one would have to go to Australia to encounter one of these beasties. However, since I subscribe to the old adage "know thine enemy," the following comprise the sort of spiders I can look forward to encountering while I'm here in S.D.:

An antrodiatidae, also known as the folding door spider


A ctenizidae, known as the trap door spider


a theraphosidae, I would need some theraphosidae if anyone ever traumatized me enough to put a spider on my face like this


And the crown jewel of scary spiders, the theridiidae or black widow spider that would kill me instantly (no, not from a bite, just from looking at it)


All this said, I must say, I've gotten GOOD at coping with spiders here. I have little brown, fast-moving, spindly legged ones in my house on a biweekly basis so I'm getting better...

Spinning a web

If there's one creation I'm not thankful for, it's a spider. The ultimate of creepy crawlies, these hell escapees have no place in this world, in my opinion. I know I know..."The greater good of the ecosystem...", "But they eat other bugs..." to that I respond with the worst pun of the day; "bugger off"! Because these 8-legged fiends about one-hundredth of my size are the bane of my existence ... and never so much as in autumn.
Ironically, I was born in the month during which spiders, as a species, reach their zenith. At this time they out do themselves in number and presence in the home as the weather gets colder and they migrate indoors to cause illimitable terror among arachnophobes, such as myself. Yet, as it is only the third day in September, the little imps remain outdoors but take the liberty to strew their silk from limbs of trees to anything and everything else that remains static for more than approx. 7 minutes. So that, upon leaving the front door in the morning, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air that holds the promise of brisk autumnal days ahead, I sally forth carefree toward my car when I feel it. Strands of loathsome silk cling to my face and give way while my own momentum carries me right through a web strung from the roof of the house down to the brick walkway. I spastically swipe at my face, arms, chest while frantically trying convince myself of some outlandish lie so as not to lose my head entirely in early-morning suburbia: "it's just your own hair, Meg" or "it's okay, that web has been there and unoccupied for ages!" No dice. My freak-out level is at about a 9.8 as I instantly fantasize of running back indoors, taking a shower and crawling into a huge plastic bubble in which I will plan to live out my days.
I read in "TIME" magazine about 3 years ago, that as a resident in the United States, one is likely to be within 8 feet of a spider at any given time. Yeah. If that doesn't keep you up tonight, nothing will.
I have nightmares about spiders all. the. time.
I bear a scar from a spider bite incurred about 8 years ago on my left hand thus ruining any chances of my ever becoming a hand model...little scamp...
To add insult to injury, these miniature monstrosities have a certain affinity for building their homes, right outside my bedroom window so that, inevitably, I will be cleaning my bedroom some lovely day and feel the impulse to open the blinds and THERE! Unexpected yet predictably some dastardly arachnid will be suspended in the middle of my view causing me to utter some uncontrollable shriek. You may think to yourself, "so what? tear it down and the problem is solved within minutes." No, my friend. The brutes are not only hideous to behold but they are also dumb as dirt. Day next, there it is again and it is only a matter of time before it, along with its kind, steal into the house unannounced and unwelcome. But no matter, for you see, I have the ultimate secret weapon. A lower-case-'g' god among men, spartan of the defenseless ... The ABC Pest Control guy.
So I sleep soundly, knowing my house has been vindicated of the curse of the little beasties and though I still have nightmares every now and then about spiders and wake up convinced that my disheveled hair is a mass of web - I know that $38 couldn't be allotted any more rightly than in payment to my champion, the pest control guy.

She is most herself in the summertime

I stealthily sneak past my parent's bedroom, down the hall and into the family room where I switch on a lamp in one corner and cross to the other to the patio door. I deftly and quietly unlatch it, casting a glance over my shoulder to ensure I'm alone. I cautiously step down onto the patio and a leaf crunches under my bare foot. I'm always paranoid, as I cross the threshold, that I'll feel the loathsome silk of a spider web against my bare skin as arachnids possess a certain affinity for building across doorframes; you'd think they'd cotton on after having them ruined so often and build their fragile homes on better real estate. However, tonight I am met only by the balmy night air which varies from my own body temperature by a degree or two. I ease the door shut behind me and turn to our old set of patio furniture we've owned since I can remember. I settle into a chair whose chrome and plastic thatching belie the comfort it affords.
I light a clove cigarette - a vice I rarely indulge in but nevertheless relish - close my eyes and lean my head back as I exhale. I open my eyes and they alight on the stars, my old and eternal friends. The Big Dipper, suspended high above seems to scoop up the lush branches of a tall beech tree that looms overhead. I follow Ursa Major's points of light to Draco's winding body and connect his bright dots with my finger that seems too clumsy and substantial an implement for such a task.
I close my eyes again and try to count all the sounds that fill my ears: crickets stringing, living leaves rustling in the trees and dead ones skittering dryly on the pavement, a far off motor rumbles, a few rogue firecrackers pop and water trickles from the neighbor's artificial pond.
In the process of collecting sounds, my head has lolled back down, automatically panning my view back to earth. Upon opening my eyes I observe fireflies socializing in the yard. I focus my attention on one pair in particular who are flitting around at a distance of a few yards, now they flirtatiously wink at one another from a couple of feet away from one another, now they've brought their frenzied coquetting within inches of one another circling round in elegant figure-eight motions. I look away and feel a certain prude embarrassment for having voyeuristically spied on their courtship.
After having watched the insects, paranoia sets in once more and I fancy that my skin is crawling with unwelcome six- or eight-legged guests. To counter this, I let my wet hair down out of its haphazard bun and let damp, unruly waves of it graze my shoulders and back so that now I'll only think it is my own hair I feel. The smell of my shampoo now overtakes the sweet, green smells that filled my nostrils - combining with the sickly sweet tobacco smell of my cloves while a gentle breeze playfully untucks a strand of hair I'd smoothed behind my ear.
A great many things threaten to crowd my mind but for now I am sharing a discourse with God and asking him to help me redouble my efforts to see things the way He does. It helps for me to look into the sky as I do this and I notice that a lone cloud is obscuring the big dipper. I make a silent promise to my constellation that I won't go back inside until the cloud dissippates, because I know it would be rude to take my leave without saying good night.