There was a large spider on the corner of my bedroom ceiling two days ago. My kids came into my room and pointed out the long-legged arachnid, more than once. "Mom, there's a big spider on your ceiling!" I think it was a variation of one of these, known as a crab spider:
"Yeah, I know," I told the kids. I didn't really mind that the spider had taken up residence--after all, if we began getting mosquitoes or flies in the house, Mr. Spider could take care of them. When I was a kid, we named our house spiders and let them work for us. We paid them in free insects. Crab spiders don't spin webs; they just catch their food. That was my reasoning for letting him squat in my bedroom, anyway, blissfully unaware that the leggy dude was more curious about me than I was about him.
If I'd only known what the blankety-blank spider was plotting.
Now I think about him crouching in that corner, and shudder at what his devious mind was up to. Gullible me, who had done him a nice turn by not throwing him out into the cold, windy night. There I was, thinking that he wiggled his legs in preparation for catching bugs, when he was most likely cackling his evil spider laugh, rubbing appendages together in glee. I've since learned my lesson about trusting anything with eight legs. With several eyes, the spider is highly qualified to be a spy for the CIA--or a Peeping Tom.
Yesterday afternoon I had a nice bowl of salad and was leaning on my side on my bed, propped up by some pillows, eating while surfing on my laptop. The salad was nearly gone, and I was fully engrossed in whatever I was doing, when something the size of a SILVER DOLLAR sprinted across one of my, uh--let's just say where no spider had a right to be--and up toward my face.
I let out a strangled scream as I quickly brushed the spider away. (I hoped I did, because I had no idea where he went.) Then for good measure, I ripped off my shirt, hoping I wasn't transferring the spider to my hair and jumped around, waving my arms like I'd won the lottery. Which I guess in a way I had, because how many people are fortunate enough to have a spider make a mad dash for their face?
After my breathing calmed and the silence meant that I hadn't woken Bean (who was napping in the next room), I looked at the bed. There was the spider, not moving. Not even a twitch. He wasn't dead; I'm guessing I had scared him to the point of unconsciousness. (This would, strangely, be the second time I'd caused a bug to pass out. The other time was a cricket. I have a powerful scream, apparently.) Either that, or I'd mesmerized him with my dancing talent. He came to and made a run for freedom when I grabbed him with a cloth and tossed him outside.
I didn't want to kill the rascal. After all, he wasn't a poisonous spider. However, his house privileges were forever revoked after attacking me.
Something similar to this happened a few months ago, too. Either it's the same spider and he has an odd attraction to me, or word is spreading that a massive, juicy, wingless fly is free for the taking.
I have news for those insects or arachnids who may be planning my destruction:
This fly will not be subdued.
I hope they don't take that as a challenge.