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.