Why does every autumn present the opportunity for close combat interaction with nature’s creepiest creatures? 2006 was the year of Bart the Missouri brown bat, alive and alert in my bedroom and now this arachnoid caper. I’ve lived alone in the Beltway jungle for what seems like a lifetime, a.k.a the number of years Kelsey Grammer has been a TV sitcom actor.  And most times I get along swimmingly, thanks very much. But yesterday morning my need for a constant companion was never more crystal clear.  All it took was one very long-legged, creepy-looking spidey for me to want a hulking male supermodel in my room stat replete with a very big flyswatter. (Who needs Harry the flabby exterminator when you can have Calvin Klein’s finest six-pack specimen?)

If you’re interested in the play-by-play, my efforts to kill this menacing, full-bodied creature with the lethal crush of a paper towel ball were in vain as it slunk off into the dank dark recesses under my antique wardrobe.  All day I heard the tick-tock of my office clock and thought, is it poisonous?  Like Ahmadinejad, will it bite me unprovoked? Thank God for the Internet. Not only can you peruse stupid human tricks on YouTube but also all varieties of house spiders, venomous and non.  Does it matter that they don’t have teeth? Are eight legs really more potent than six? And what exactly is the type marking of a toxic brown recluse? While I couldn’t determine precisely what spider I was dealing with, I surmised that it was lethal but not aggressive, no consolation to a woman who sleeps in her boxer shorts at night, limbs exposed. After the frighty-spidey incident, about all I know for sure is this: until further notice and until Gabrielle Aubry comes by, I’m putting on my battle armor of sweat pants, long-sleeved tees and socks every night, Indian summer be damned. Better safe and sweaty than sorry.

Caught in Charlotte’s Web,

TLRG