Eight-legged Assholes

All my life I’ve been terrified of spiders.  One of my funniest stories involves me trying to get away from one (a very tiny one) while trapped in the drive-thru of a bank.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve tried to adopt a more Zen lifestyle (I really need to look that word up.  I use it all the time, and I get the feeling I have no idea what I’m actually talking about), so I’ve tried to be the bigger person and not instantly kill every spider I see.  In fact, recently I’ve trapped spiders who have found their way into the house and taken them back outside to set them free.  I could have just let them live in the house, but the cats would turn them into toys, and that’s just not good for anyone.

I have left webs alone…trying to choke back the grossness of it all, and embrace the fact that they are helping control the population of flies, gnats, mosquitoes, and other useless asshole insects.  I’ve even waved at them while coming and going.  Sometimes having little conversations.  I chat until I feel like I’m going to throw up, and that’s my queue to stop.  I’ve become the bigger person.  Okay, I’ve always been the “bigger” person…but you know what I mean.

It’s gotten harder recently.  I feel like some spiders have been taking advantage of my kindness.  I found one in bed.  Nope nope nope.  He became one with a Kleenex.  One decided to float down, paratrooper-style, while I was in the shower.  He is now a decoration on the wall (it’s okay, there are at least five others, so it almost looks like I’ve got patterned wallpaper).  And last night, after a delayed 3-hour flight from Dallas to New York, and walking, in the rain, to the taxi stand to find that they weren’t allowing taxis there, so we had to take a shuttle bus, through construction, to another taxi stand, and wait, in the rain, for a cab to drive me through traffic to my place in Chelsea (don’t cry for me, I love it here!), where I walked under the stairs, at 1:00 a.m., in the rain, to fumble with the lock…only to realize that a family of spiders had decided to create their home (more like a neighborhood) around the lock.  I opened that damn lock, but I jumped around and did the spider dance for at least 3 minutes afterwards.  Then I considered what it would take to become New York’s version of “Bubble Boy”.  Then I wondered if I should start carrying a personal-size flamethrower.  Then I found the bottle of wine I had left for myself and finished it.  Zen (I REALLY need to look that up) was restored.

I live in Texas, so I realize there are some spiders whose goal in life is to kill me.  Those are not included on my Zen list.  As I type “Zen List” I get the mental image of some buff bouncer (or maybe Andrew Dice Clay) standing outside the door of my oh-so-hip club (The Snooze Bar! Well-remembered.) holding his clipboard, while a line of spiders stand along the velvet rope.  He waves in the ladybugs, butterflies and bees.  Praying Mantises are handing out pamphlets for heaven.  Crickets skateboard by.  Cockroaches are doing very bad things on the corner.  But the spiders are all stressing about who will get in.  Dice holds a can of Raid (cleverly disguised as breath spray) and uses it liberally on widows and recluses.  Wow.  When I don’t use the full name of those spiders, it sounds kind of bad.  My story just took a turn.  Oh well, I own a club.  The booze is free.  I’m a happy girl…