Next to my water spout. Up on the counter, in his web he pouts. Next to the ant trap that seems to work just fine. Welcome all the critters, it's more your place than mine.Um. Sorry for the grating noise that you just heard/read that could, in other circles, be glossed "poetry."
This is a post about a stationary arachnid. I have not yet named him, but, seeing as how I have been blessed with his presence for about a week, now, I think it is only Christian that I christen him. So. What to name him, what to name him? Gonzalez? Kinda like Speedy Gonzalez...but not? Oddly enough (and there is never any oddity on this blog, is there?), I think it fits. Strictly Bizarro-speaking, of course. Allow me to give you the background story.
About a week ago, I was having an ant problem. First, I damn-near consumed two of their curled dead bodies. That, in a word, sucked. The two voyagers had taken up residence in my coffee and then bit it, kicked the proverbial bucket, once in my mug and another time in my travel coffee sippy cuppy. I determined to quash the rebellion sooner rather than later, so I ventured to the local cookie-cutter pharmacy and I purchased a four-pack of Raid ant-traps. The box read: "POISON THEM AND WATCH THEM CRAWL BACK TO THEIR NEST TO DIE!" Amaze your friends! Be the cool kid on the block! Yeah.
Well, to jump forward in time, the traps seem to be working. Oddly enough, another thing that seemed to have worked is that I took a washcloth and hot water to my Mr. Coffee and I scraped and dabbed away the sweet-smelling sugar residue that was on the underside of the magical coffee dispenser. No more ants! Who'da thunk it?!
And, now, to slam back to the fabled Day of the Ant-Trap Purchase, I read the instructions and placed the four traps at strategic locations: two on the countertop that houses the Nectar Machine, one in a cupboard and the last one on top of the toaster-oven. While I was placing the trap on the toaster-oven, I felt a sticky tug on my right index finger and that whisper-velcro sound that can only be the tearing of a spider's complex web. (I know, I know. Time to push away from the computer and clean my house. Wha?) Instictively, I jerked my hand back from the toaster-oven/cupboard junction and rubbed the back of my hand on the wall next to the sink. It had been, indeed, the web of a spider, and said spider was now lollygagging on his web, swaying in the breeze of my sharp exhalation of breath, his hammock stretched from the yellow-tiled wall to the ceramic countertop.
I stepped back and surveyed the sitch-ee-aye-shun. The spider hung, still. Is he dead? I wondered. I poked a tentative finger at the base of his web and--lickety-split--he scrabbled higher up. Okay. Decision-time. Do I kill him? I thought about that for about two seconds. "Kill him? Why?" I asked myself. "What the hell is he doing to me?" Another option--perhaps more popular--would be to lift him and his web, yea like the Hand of God, and take his eight-legged ass outside, let him take his chances in the wild jungles of Royal Oak, Michigan. In an altruistic burst of passion for all of God's creatures, I decided to let him stay where he was, a decision that, honestly, left me imagining myself as Saint Francis of Assisi.
Oh! Look at how kind Adam is! He doesn't even kill a nasty old spider! Oh! What a saint!
Anyway. Gonzalez, it is. I have never--never--seen a more inanimate arachnid. Every time I glance over at him, whether it be when I am brewin' up some ant-free java or washing the two-day-old dishes, my boy Gonzalez is just hanging out, statuesque (not Mansfieldian, unfortunately), apparently at peace with himself and his lot in life. If food comes his way, cool. If not, cool.
The Zen of Gonzalez.
It must be nice to be a spider.
7 comments:
Watch them crawl back to their nest to die? What kind of sickos are running Raid?
I left a spider alone the other day and was feeling all right about the decision until I got a bite on my ass. From now on, they're ALL getting smashed. Or moved carefully outside - depends on my mood.
P.S. Amazin' what a little soap and water can do, isn't it?
It depends on the individual itsy-bitsy..... I dont mind the slow lazy ones but the ones that Jump???? Ewwww And the ones that crunch when you stomp em? Oh.My.God!
If that spider was in my kitchen it would be the quickly become a very dead spider. I would first spray him with Raid or whatever spider killing spray I had available. Then after watching him struggle desperately to breathe for several minutes I would sweep him off the counter all the way onto the floor. Then, as he lies there paralyzed by the Raid, staring at me, I would bring my size 12 1/2 boot down on him with furious anger and put his lights out for good.
But, that's just me. That's how I roll.
LOL getting a bite on your ass, Missy! I can top that, though, unfortunately. Once, I was drifting off to sleep...and something bit me where NO man wants to be bitten. =( If I could have caught that motherfucker, no mercy would have been shown. Grind, grind, grind.
Terry: You'd have loved my great-aunt. My Grandad's siter was a little...uh...eccentric, I would say. She had two boa constrictors and also--this is for you--huge-assed hairy tarantulas that had an affinity for crawling along--at a swift pace, I might add--on her long-fingered, elegant palms.
"With furious anger," Jay? =o) I have the image of Sam L. Jackson in my head, now, squashing spiders while wearing an Orkin-Man suit. Cooooool.
ewww ewwww ewwwwww no offense but she was a nasty ole lady lol (in jest of course - Im all about lovin on the elderly!)
haha I thought of you this afternoon! My brother, who just recently became a Cable Guy, went with his partner in a basement today and ran the spider sissy he is! He said they turned on the lights down there and about 40-50 huge ass jumping spiders started jumping all over the place. They left with out fixing the poor spider lovin man's cable. How Rude! lolol
oops * ran like the spider sissy he is
You know, Terry, if I had a job at which 40 or 50 jumping spiders were hanging out in the basement? I'd be loooooong-gone, too! There's no excuse for that kind of "housemanship." Is it a word? Naw...but it'll work.
And "sissy?" No way, uh-uh. Smart man is your brother. =o)
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