My house has become a war zone. I realize that my battle is pretty piddling on the total scale of wars, but let me tell you, I’m this close to waving a white flag and moving to another hemisphere. Or Antarctica.
Granted, I’m way bigger than my foe. But still. My opponent isn’t even human, which is way creepier. Plus my adversary has the same number of legs that I do – times four. As in – count ’em – eight legs. As in spiders.
End-of-summer spiders are fat and aggressive after spending a summer doing little else except growing bigger. They spin webs large and intricate enough to incarcerate cats and small dogs. To make matters worse, these despicable warriors specialize in surprise attacks, like today when I abruptly encountered two Major Spiders.
Now a “major” spider (and I’m sure you won’t find this clarification in any of your big fat science books) is anything other than the so-called “daddy longlegs.” Unless, of course, “daddy” is big as a dinner plate. This genre confusingly goes by a second alias, “granddaddy” longlegs, but since I’ve never taken the time to seek a formal introduction, I’m never sure if I’m dealing with granddaddy or his progeny.
The daddy series aside, major spiders are just plain big and … icky, a highly scientific term that I reserve for the entire spider spectrum. OK, they kill insects and are great for the garden, yadda, yadda, yadda. But here’s the obvious question: If spiders kill bugs, what kills spiders?
Husbands.
Yes, I know about sexual equality and all that, but if you ask me, spider squashing ranks right up there in the marriage vows department with love, honor and pick up your dirty socks. Admit it, girls, you could be married to the most loathsome, low-rent, scum-sucking scoundrel west of the Mississippi, but when you catch sight of a nasty looking spider with hairier legs than the guy you married, who you gonna call? You got it, and I bet there are marriages stuck together by far weaker bonds than an obliging spouse who is prepared to come to your aid when a spider threatens.
Sadly, there are times at our house when my husband heartlessly leaves for a carefree day of golf, rendering me helpless to sneak attacks by the spider brigade. In fact, I have a nagging suspicion that whole spider armies conduct secret strategy meetings at my house the night before, spurred on by the sight of my spouse polishing up his putter.
“Tomorrow’s golf day,” the spider general whispers to his junior underlings, “and you all know what that means.” Which elicits a chorus of silent spider cheers because golf day means riotous spider rampages at my house. So, ladies, if you’re married to similarly callous men who leave the house for more than two minutes at a time during spider season, let me reveal some of the necessary survival skills I’ve perfected in the event of attack.
First is the food chain approach. If you own a cool dog who loves nothing better than the delicacy of a mature spider, by all means go fetch Fido. This is a no-brainer. Regrettably, my dog is a picky eater, and the only live creature that could possibly interest him is a cow that would obligingly slice itself into perfect fillets over his food dish. This leaves me with two alternatives.
One of my sure-fire spider removal techniques is the burial at sea method. This is the only way to go when a spider pops up unannounced in your sink or bathtub. Initiate the assault by finding a large tumbler and filling it with water since spiders are seldom conveniently located next to the drain. Once the intruder’s descent resembles a wild ride on the water slide and your little swimmer is headed for the drain, turn on the tap full blast. Let the water gush for a minimum of 11 hours because who knows how long those suckers can hold their breath and hang on to the rim of the drain. You can bet if he pulls himself out of there, whooooee! He is going to be cranky!
Finally, there is the foolproof suction system. Drag out your most powerful vacuum cleaner and aim the intake nozzle at the little culprit. Continue running the vacuum for a couple of hours post suctioning, and then haul the whole apparatus outside far, far away from the house. Very Important: Your vacuum cleaner must remain outside a minimum of two weeks – or the lifespan of a spider, whichever is greater – because the minute you turn off the power and he’s still in your house, you are a marked woman. He may be missing a leg or two, but he’ll find you. Better to let him hobble out of the vacuum dazed and confused at the end of your driveway, hopefully losing himself next door at your neighbor’s house.
So the next time you wake up in the middle of the night because you heard a strange sound and suddenly remember you prematurely turned off the water tap or brought in the vacuum cleaner too soon, it’s probably an enraged spider headed for your bedroom, limping along on six and a half legs, out to settle some scores.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Gale Hammond is a 23-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at
Ga*********@ao*.com
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