What do you call a hobo crossed with a blueberry?
Oddly enough, this was the thought that came to mind as I found myself crouched down on the ground, a toilet scrub brush in my hand and tears welling in my eyes. As pathetic as I felt, this simple joke my son Chase told me popped into mind and—well nothing can put things in perspective when you are kneeling on the bathroom floor clutching a toilet brush covered in spider webs—but his joke came close.
I have arachnophobia. I’ve come a long way from the screaming-bolt-out-of-the-room girl I once was, but the fear is still there. Though I’ve manned up. I’ve had to. My husband doesn’t kill spiders for me, and my boys will hear me squeal, come running, and simply say, “Whoa, Mom, that’s a big one!” before walking away. I get no special treatment in the house of testosterone, so I’ve learned to deal with the pests myself.
That was working well—until we bought the house that spiders built. Because our house opens up to the Hundred Acre Woods, it’s a bed and breakfast for spiders passing through. I’m sure some set up shop, but many—especially the giant Godzilla-sized ones—will just lumber across the living room floor while we are watching TV, their fat mid-sections swaying between their skinny legs. The small, shiny, thick ones scatter quickly over the ottoman by someone’s foot or appear, then disappear over the arm of the couch.
I’ve walked in on fat ones taking a shower and had to wait my turn, and I’ve had to crush too many soft, flimsy ones while dusting the corners. They really need to be paying rent.
Then I learned about a different kind of spider. One that carries its babies on its back. A friend told a story about stepping on one and then freaking out as the babies scattered out from the crushed mom. I’ve been battling spiders for three months. I didn’t need to hear about spider octomoms. Two nights later I was having nightmares about baby spiders exploding out all over my floor. By the third night, guess who was knocking on my sliding glass door? There was spider octomom looking for room at the inn. I kneeled down to take a look at the spider, and it was carrying a white, berry-sized ball. It looked at me as if to say, “Can you hurry and open the door? This thing is heavy.” And it paced back and forth in front of the door waiting for me to open it.
Instead, I screamed for my husband. I asked him not to kill it—just to get rid of it. So he picked up the doormat it was sitting on and tossed it about three feet away—right where I take my dog out to pee.
“Why did you put it right there?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it; it’s gone,” my husband said grumpily.
“I can’t take the dog out,” I insisted.
“You will take the dog out,” he insisted even louder.
I stayed up until 4:30 a.m. that night for fear the spider would come back inside. I jumped at every creak and clack the house made until I reminded myself that if that spider came back, it wouldn’t make a sound. The thought of the spider silently slipping in and stalking me scared me even more.
I tried to remember the logical information I knew about spiders. Most of them aren’t harmful. I got up and looked up information online. Everyone says the only harmful spiders are the brown recluse and black widow. Those people are wrong. There is another. It is called a hobo spider. And of course it looks suspiciously like the giant spiders that invade my house.
The next night, tired from 2 1/2 hours of sleep, I walked into the bath and saw a shiny brown spider in the corner. I mustered up all my bravery and, with tissue in hand, I slowly got to my hands and knees. As I closed in on the spider, I somehow collapsed like a giant AT-AT navigating the icy terrain of Hoth. The commotion was enough to alert the spider, and it scrambled under a cabinet. I grabbed a can of hairspray to—I don’t know—stiffen it to death, and underneath the can was another spider. I smashed that one, and with spider guck still smeared on my hand, I dropped the can and went for the toilet brush.
I scraped it under the cabinet, but the spider slipped under the peeling linoleum, where I’m sure it has a maze of tunnels to launch it quickly to whatever room I’m in just in time to gross me out with its creepy presence. That’s when I gave up.
Hear that spiders? I resign. I can’t beat you. So please don’t invade my shoes anymore—or my dreams, for that matter. And please don’t knock on the slider door at 10:30 p.m., because I won’t let you in, hobo spider, no matter what kind of load you are carrying.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the answer to the joke is a hoberry—or a bluebo, depending on which you prefer. But I think the real answer is a hobo spider.
Arts Editor Shelly Cone wants all spiders to turn in their keys, pack up, and leave her house—or else start paying their share of rent. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 14-21, 2011.