Dear Scary Monster,
My husband and I have an agreement. Any beefy (hairy) spiders under half an inch in diameter (including legs), I can take care of. Those larger, him being both taller and heavier, are his preserve. We call it “The Height/Weight Ratio.”
So why did you show up Monday morning, right after he left for work? Still in pajamas, PRE-COFFEE DAMMIT, I saw you standing there, up on all eights, like a disembodied, emaciated, clawed Halloween hand, in the dim light of the carpeted hallway, waiting…
Waiting for what – a breakfast invite, a battle to the death?
To your credit, you remained calm, watchful, almost Zen-like, while I screamed bloody murder. Or maybe you were stretching your limbs and yawning, all sleepy-eyed, after one of those travel dreams. Where you’re in Paris, unable to speak French, and you can’t find a bathroom. In which case, SORRY I WOKE YOU UP!
At least you didn’t bungee-jump out of a kitchen light fixture and bounce around in front of me, the way one much smaller spider did, before realizing a pan of bubbling spaghetti sauce lay beneath it like molten lava and hurriedly shimmied back up.
I generally adhere to a live-and-let-live philosophy, catching spiders in empty, specially-purposed, 15-ounce Earth Balance containers with lids. To be emptied outside, to join relatives, friends, associates, strangers or sworn enemies in my “spider colony.” A colony I started years ago, behind a mature Escallonia bush in our front yard. Which, by now must be the equivalent of a refugee camp.
For you, though, I needed a bucket.
Avoiding the likelihood that your even-more-monstrous mate lurked nearby, I put you down as female, females being generally larger than males. Nominal relief though it might have been to find a vagina, I wasn’t about to spread your legs to check. I know some people do it – and good luck to them – but sexing a spider is way beyond my scope. Nor did I wish to be accused of groping.
You suddenly shot into the bathroom and went MIA. I extended a large hand mirror under the rim of the bathroom cabinet, and found you squeezed up into a corner, like a loosely-woven rattan drinks coaster. Using a Swiffer I nudged you out. Luckily, you didn’t run at me, for I’d have fled screaming like a Roman fleeing Pompeii. Instead, you disappeared into the vent.
Heart pounding and damning you to hell, I checked Google. Photos identified you as a giant house spider (Tegenaria duellica) – Horribilis tegenaria duellica is more like it – with a leg span of up to four inches. Congratulations, you’ve beaten the record!
One website suggested the following options:
1. Using cosmetic puffs soaked in tea tree oil, create a barrier to discourage the spider.
2. Purring loudly, slowly approach the spider on all fours. This should mesmerize the spider and initiate mating. Then, placing a clear bowl over the aroused spider, gently slide a card underneath, careful not to break its legs.
3. Use THE VACUUM!
I tried the first, reasoning that if you disliked the smell, you’d simply stay put. Hopefully, you’d be an old gal, ready to kick the bucket, and not, given your Olympian speed, some frisky youngster about to give birth to several hundred little monsters. All indications, however, pointed to the latter.
As I knelt before the vent, carefully lining up the cosmetic puffs, I sensed mischief afoot.
Sure enough, you were right behind me, a few inches from my bare right foot, preparing, unquestionably, to sink your fangs in.
Adrenaline-fueled, I sprang up, ran in mid-air, pajamas twisted, and hurtled over you in a near-flying tackle, almost knocking myself unconscious in my haste to get… THE VACUUM.
Look, I’m sorry about THE VACUUM. When I started it up and edged it toward you, over the linoleum, it roared like a wild beast. At which point you must have been shitting yourself. I know I was! However, lost in the translation of panic versus practicality was that I had miscalculated your size versus the opening. I felt like Saddam Hussein and his fucking meat grinder. You escaped, barely, dragging a leg like Boris Karloff playing the mummy Imhotep, and slid smoothly, angling slightly, under the cabinet, with the skill of a goal-scoring soccer player on wet turf.
I moved the vacuum nearer, noticing for the first time your bony, strangely human kneecaps. You promptly disappeared into the vent or into the vacuum – I’m not sure which.
Again, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault you’re so FUCKING HUGE. A consequence of my sadistic impulse may have resulted in tinnitus or total deafness, and a permanent limp, on your part. I’d buy you a hearing aid and a walker, but – I know this sounds discriminatory – they don’t make them for arachnids.
I examined the contents of the vacuum, finding the cosmetic puffs, but nary a sign of you. Which leads me to conclude that you’re still living in our vent. Rent-free at this juncture.
Therefore, Scary Monster, if you wish to continue as our tenant, rent is due. And there are rules: Keep your distance, don’t move any relatives in, don’t let the kids out to play, and certainly don’t put up any scary Halloween decorations. There’s a dear!
