By Michele Miller, Times Staff Writer
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
"Spider!!!!"
The frantic call from the other room comes late, just as I'm drifting into what I had hoped would be a few solid hours of deep slumber.
"Not to be," I figure, as I grope for my glasses and sift through the "literary" pile on my side of the bed to find something sturdy enough to pack a wallop.
I pass on the St. Petersburg Times sports section (too soft) and the September issue of Esquire; a keeper since I haven't read the inside piece on Newt Gingrich, and a rather fine-looking James Franco is plastered on the cover. Really, what woman in her right mind would want to splatter that face with spider guts? I end up settling for the latest issue of AAA's Going Places travel magazine, which seems somewhat apropos since my intent is to whack that spider into the hereafter.
In some houses the killing of spiders might be the husband's chore, but there's no sense rousing the old man. He, unlike me, was blessed with gift of sound sleeping. Middle of the day he'd be up to the task, but at this time of night the eight-legged intruder would be long gone before the old man's feet hit the floor.
I, on the other hand, am woman and can be stealth at a moment's notice.
Especially when one of my kids — "the spotter," so to speak — is calling for backup from the other room while keeping a steady eye on the creepy crawler so it doesn't escape.
That is the established protocol, one we adopted out of necessity after moving into this tree-canopied house that borders a small patch of woods where these scary looking wolf spiders — measuring 2 inches or so across — tend to reside.
They aren't aggressive, so we never bother with them outdoors. From time to time, they wander into the house to escape the elements, perhaps, after days of unrelenting drought or rain.
Lately there's been a bit of an onslaught.
Over the last few weeks I've encountered one in the linen closet, the bathroom shower and another on the kitchen floor while on a water run in the wee hours of the morning.
They are big and swift and make a scuttling sound that induces a shiver when they race across your walls. Take your eye off one of these buggers and it is gone in a flash, leaving you to wonder if you really saw it in the first place.
When no one else is around I leave them be because I don't relish the thought of killing anything. They're not prone to biting. Their venom isn't deadly, and they do devour other pesky bugs. "If one of the kids spots you, you're dead meat," I tell them as I go about my business. "But for now you get to live another day."
Besides, ridding the house of a wolf spider is typically a two person task.
One that I'm about to undertake, albeit reluctantly, in the middle of the night with travel magazine in hand. I find the middle child in the front entrance hallway pointing toward the ceiling like a spaniel on the hunt.
Lucky spider, this one is. Turns out there's the option of a last-minute reprieve.
"Open the door," I instruct my daughter, who's already retreating in squeamish fashion. She pulls it ajar and jumps back as I wave the magazine mere inches from the ceiling. The spider scuttles a bit then drops on the floor and scoots out the door to safety — which may be short-lived, what with all the toads and tree frogs lurking out there.
I, on the other hand, return to bed, stealthlike, hoping that maybe that Newt Gingrich article, or yet another perusing of the piece on James Franco, will finally lull me to sleep.
Michele Miller can be reached at miller@sptimes or at (727) 869-6251.