I’m currently engaged in a vicious mind game with a spider.
The other night, a bare five minutes after Carrie left, I discovered the little bugger — except he’s actually rather big; one of those with somewhat stubby legs and a thick torso, kind of like a gymnast — sitting up near the kitchen ceiling, over my Crate & Barrel island (which is backed up against a wall at the moment).
Flush with the triumph of using the Swiffer to lay waste to an identical beast that was above my showerhead the day before, I grabbed the instrument of its certain doom and snuck it up there. But my first swipe only dislodged him, and he dropped.
Into nothingness. Seriously, he disappeared. I peeked behind the blinds, I looked under and on and behind the island, and I even stood on a chair to see if he’d landed atop the blind mechanism and was trying to lay low. Nothing. I smacked around up there with the Swiffer to scare him out, but nothing. Clearly this is not your ordinary spider.
I left for a bit to try and lure him into a false sense of security; nothing. I turned off the lights and went to watch the end of Cruel Intentions, hoping he’d creep out under cover of darkness. Nope. I then, and this is a true story, resorted to saying things out loud to the empty kitchen like, "I don’t even want to KILL the spider. I just want to set it free outside," and "Seriously, I don’t know WHAT it’s so afraid of." But the bastard either didn’t understand me — A LIKELY STORY — or somehow doubted the veracity of my claims. Can’t imagine why. Might have been the giant flat Swiffer head that almost mated him with the wall.
To my eyes, he still hasn’t resurfaced. Which means he’s just Out There Somewhere, waiting to turn up in a place that will make my heart stop. (My mother once stood up from the toilet to discover a roach crawling up the interior of the bowl. There was, let’s say, some screaming.)
All I can hope now is that when my oven repairman arrives in the next hour, the spider — high on its wilyness thus far — gets cocky and makes some kind of arrogant, fatal mistake, and Mr. Ug Cue K (this is what his printed name looks like on the work order, despite the fact that his signature looks like it says "Aleaaf") steps on him for me so that the spider clan clearly living inside my walls does not get angry at the loss of two of its own and revenge itself against me. But you know, I wouldn’t put anything past these shady critters. I don’t trust them as far as I can flick them with a Swiffer.