Spiders. No one I've ever met is neutral about them. A very few people like or at least appreciate them. Most hate them.
I saw a funny meme once that went something like, "This morning, I found a spider in my bathroom. I took a tissue, and very, very slowly and carefully, I burned my house down."
I have a friend, Lisa, who is actually arachnophobic. I know this, but not by hearing her confession or by reading any certificate from a psychologist. I know this because once, remembering she had mentioned she was afraid of spiders, I playfully posted some horror story or video or something about a spider that was making the rounds (I can't remember what it was now) onto her Facebook wall. Lisa is the sweetest, most non-confrontational person ever. And she F-bombed me. Loudly. On Facebook. I had not really taken her fear seriously. I mean, everyone says they hate spiders. I felt terrible, because had I really listened to her, I would have realized that she probably wouldn't find humor in anything spider-related. Especially not if it included an actual IMAGE of a spider. Lesson learned...
I've heard horror stories of spider bites. A USC Trojan Marching Band mate of mine, John, whom everyone referred to as "Nutcup", once got a spider bite right between his eyes. The wound became infected, I think even necrotic, and to this day, he has a big crater there. As I recall, he was super sick from it. Another friend, Kathy, had a similar experience. A terrible bite she got on her face while sleeping, a wicked infection. I've never been bitten by a spider, but when you hear stories like that, it only goes to increase the reputation spiders have for being dangerous and aggressive.
I never used to like spiders. I mean, if I saw one in the house, I'd usually kill it. If I saw one outside, I'd avoid it. But a specific event changed me. I can't say I love them now, but I can tell you I haven't killed a spider on purpose in about a decade or more... and I'll tell you why.
At the beginning of October, the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles museum transforms its Butterfly Pavilion (there's a whole other blog coming about THAT) into a spider exhibit. Because the butterflies are all bred in captivity, and because they have a ridiculously short life span, they leave them in this habitat and introduce a ton of varieties of spiders. The spiders take up residence, eat the members of the previous exhibit, and provide more education and entertainment for visitors. It sounds grisly, but it's actually quite efficient.
I saw a funny meme once that went something like, "This morning, I found a spider in my bathroom. I took a tissue, and very, very slowly and carefully, I burned my house down."
I have a friend, Lisa, who is actually arachnophobic. I know this, but not by hearing her confession or by reading any certificate from a psychologist. I know this because once, remembering she had mentioned she was afraid of spiders, I playfully posted some horror story or video or something about a spider that was making the rounds (I can't remember what it was now) onto her Facebook wall. Lisa is the sweetest, most non-confrontational person ever. And she F-bombed me. Loudly. On Facebook. I had not really taken her fear seriously. I mean, everyone says they hate spiders. I felt terrible, because had I really listened to her, I would have realized that she probably wouldn't find humor in anything spider-related. Especially not if it included an actual IMAGE of a spider. Lesson learned...
I've heard horror stories of spider bites. A USC Trojan Marching Band mate of mine, John, whom everyone referred to as "Nutcup", once got a spider bite right between his eyes. The wound became infected, I think even necrotic, and to this day, he has a big crater there. As I recall, he was super sick from it. Another friend, Kathy, had a similar experience. A terrible bite she got on her face while sleeping, a wicked infection. I've never been bitten by a spider, but when you hear stories like that, it only goes to increase the reputation spiders have for being dangerous and aggressive.
I never used to like spiders. I mean, if I saw one in the house, I'd usually kill it. If I saw one outside, I'd avoid it. But a specific event changed me. I can't say I love them now, but I can tell you I haven't killed a spider on purpose in about a decade or more... and I'll tell you why.
At the beginning of October, the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles museum transforms its Butterfly Pavilion (there's a whole other blog coming about THAT) into a spider exhibit. Because the butterflies are all bred in captivity, and because they have a ridiculously short life span, they leave them in this habitat and introduce a ton of varieties of spiders. The spiders take up residence, eat the members of the previous exhibit, and provide more education and entertainment for visitors. It sounds grisly, but it's actually quite efficient.
Jennifer and I visited this Spider House one October when she was about eight. Jennifer, who has always been creeped out by just about all insects (there's a reason for that, and that's a whole other blog in the making), was anxious to leave pretty much immediately. But I was absolutely fascinated. A very personable young lady, who was a docent, would very gently lift spiders off of plant leaves and talk about them while we watched them crawl all over her hands and arms. The spider on her hand would walk along, and every so often, it would touch the end of its abdomen onto the surface of her skin. She showed us that it was leaving little anchors of silk, so that if it suddenly fell, it would have a safety line. It was just riveting.
The docent explained that all spiders are venomous, but that they generally choose carefully what to use it on. It's meant for prey or for protection. So if you're not threatening it or squishing it, it won't waste its venom on big giant you. Also, spiders eat pretty much all the bugs I loathe (which is all the other bugs on the planet), so I began to appreciate that they're definitely on my team.
Spiders' webs are all unique and perfectly suited to help them catch prey. I admit that I've done quite a few energetic interpretive dances after walking or horseback riding into a web on an early morning outing. Nothing else gets the blood pumping quite so effectively. And then you spend the next several hours convinced there's a stranded spider crawling around on you.
I've actually held a tarantula before. Jennifer attended a birthday party where a guy brought all kinds of exotic animals for the kids to hold and touch (including wallabies who hopped around the yard the entire time, a possum with giant bulgy eyes, and a huge iguana of some sort that Jennifer held). One of the creatures was a tarantula. Jennifer wouldn't go near it, but I held it. It was fuzzy, warm, and way heavier than I expected. Super cool.
Still, ever since that day at the museum in 2006, when I was so thoroughly schooled on the unique, misunderstood, amazing creatures they are, I haven't intentionally killed a single spider (except for one that was in my car while I was driving - no time for humane treatment then...). If I find one in the house, I catch it and release it outside. Once, my arachnaphobic friend Lisa was picking up Jennifer for some homeschool activity, and we found a big, pinkish orb weaver spider in her car. Lisa went white and said, "Ohhhh boy..." as I gently picked this spider up WITH MY BARE HANDS and put it in my garden. I felt very badass.
So, no more spider killing for me... even though, long before that, when Jennifer was only four years old, I had an interesting incident that began with my reluctance to kill a spider and ended in a call to 911.
It all started with a spider in a Kleenex box. I had brought Jennifer into my shower with me, and when I was done, I got out and left her in there to play some more, as she often did. As long as she stayed seated and didn't plug the drain, I'd let her take little toys in there, and she'd enjoy a little water play. I'd hang around within earshot, listening to make sure she was safe, and when she tired of being in there, she'd call me to come get her.
I was breaking down an empty Kleenex box on the bathroom counter, when I saw a big ol' spider inside it. It was rather skittish and very quick. Being too chicken to try to smoosh it inside (it just might crawl on my hand or something, you know…), I decided to take it down to the front porch. As I still wasn't, um, entirely decent after my shower, I set the box outside the front door and went upstairs to finish dressing. After pulling on a t-shirt and pair of jeans, I returned to the porch to get rid of the spider and toss the box. Not wanting the little monster to run into the house, I quickly closed the front door behind me and looked into the tissue box -- which was now empty. I had no idea where the spider had gone, so I turned to go back into the house.
The door was locked.
I was outside, wet-haired and barefoot.
My four-year-old child was playing, alone, upstairs, in the running shower.
Oops.
Oops.
Thinking quickly, and remembering that my neighbor Lilly kept our spare house key, I looked around to see if her car was there. It was, of course, gone. I pounded on her door anyway in case her husband Tony was home, but no luck. With a growing sense of panic, kicking myself for being so incredibly stupid, I ran up the driveway to our nextdoor neighbors and asked to use their phone. A bunch of big teenage boys were lounging in the living room, and it took a second for it to sink in that this was kind of a big deal. Seeing my growing agitation, they finally sprang into action. After a brief search, they found the phone, and I called 911 while the boys dashed off toward my house.
How humiliating was this phone call, you ask?
How humiliating was this phone call, you ask?
911 Operator: 911, what is your emergency?
Me: Um, hi, I've locked myself out of my house, and my little daughter is in the shower!
911 Operator: How old is your child?
Me: She's four.
911 Operator: FOUR? You said she's in the BATHTUB??
Me: No, it's a standing shower. There's not enough water to drown in, but I gotta get back in there!
I've forgotten the rest of the call, but I'm sure I remember the unveiled disapproval in the operator's voice.
While we waited, the neighbor boys tried to get into a window downstairs. I'm pleased to report that my house is very safe against intruders. Meanwhile, I was picturing Jennifer upstairs, calling to me, telling me she was ready to get out, and wondering why I wasn't coming. Or falling and cracking her head on the tile as she pushed open the door by herself, or or or or...
Fortunately, the fire department is only a couple of blocks away, so sure enough, after a few minutes that seemed like forever, a big ol' fire engine showed up with sirens and lights and everything. The firemen were very courteous and never once called me an idiot, although at one point, I was standing outside my door with one of them, who shouted up the hill to the men in the truck some code number. I asked, "Is that the code for 'really stupid mother'?" He laughed and assured me it wasn't. He was just asking his partner to bring a ladder. They also seemed less worried that Jennifer was already drowning than they would have been if she’d been in a bathtub full of water.
They brought a big ladder down the driveway and took what I felt was an inordinate amount of time to make sure it was properly and safely anchored before someone climbed it. I felt like screaming, "HURRY UP!!!!", but I managed to keep it together. So this fireman in full gear -- big ol' boots, coat, helmet -- got ready to climb up and try the balcony door to my room, which I was relatively sure was unlocked. He asked what my child's name was, and I could just imagine how she'd flip if some fireman came barging into the bathroom and popped open the shower door to see her. Wisely, his partner suggested that he try to get in without her really noticing, so that we wouldn't upset her unnecessarily. So he climbed the ladder, and about three hours later -- okay, I guess it was only moments later -- he opened the front door. He said he listened in and could hear her, still in the shower. "She was just singing away in there," he said with a smile. As I dashed past the fireman, he said, "We're gonna take off now," and I bolted upstairs to find Jennifer singing and washing the walls with a sponge, completely oblivious to the drama that had been occurring downstairs.
I've heard a few people say they generally leave spiders alone, as long as they're not black widows. I have a friend, Rommi, whose hubby found a black widow in a shed they were cleaning out. Because we're all homeschoolers, this of course became a great teachable opportunity. Joe put the spider into a jar, poked holed in the lid, and brought it into the house for the four kids to see. Well, within a day, they found a big giant egg sac in there. So now, it wasn't one black widow. It was about a hundred of them in the making.
Rommi flipped out and asked me what they should do with it. She's a total hippie (for which I love her immensely!!), and she said that she was afraid to kill it. She was convinced that if they killed the spider and her egg sac, her descendants would hunt her down and take their revenge.
For years, I've had periodic contact with a guy I call "Brent the Bug Guy". He works at the Insect Zoo at the Museum of Natural History. Often, I'd email him a picture of a caterpillar or other bug we'd found and ask what kind it was, what we should feed it, etc. So I emailed him:
"Dear Brent,
My friend found a black widow and put it in a jar. While it was there, it laid an egg sac. Now what should they do? Just how poisonous are they? Is there a humane way to dispose of them? And if she does, she is worried that the descendants of the spider will come after her."
Brent's response was something like:
"Honestly, when I find black widows, I leave them where I find them. Unless you're jamming your hand into a garden glove without looking first, chances are you aren't going to be bitten. Yes, they're poisonous, but not generally deadly, and if you leave them alone, they'll leave you alone. I'd tell your friend to put the spider back where she found it. If she really wants to dispose of them, the most humane way would be to put the jar into the freezer for a couple of weeks. They'll just go to sleep from the cold and die without really suffering.
As for the descendants taking revenge, I'm not going to make any promises..."
I don't remember what she ended up doing. But, just to be safe, I don't hang around her much anymore.
Rommi flipped out and asked me what they should do with it. She's a total hippie (for which I love her immensely!!), and she said that she was afraid to kill it. She was convinced that if they killed the spider and her egg sac, her descendants would hunt her down and take their revenge.
For years, I've had periodic contact with a guy I call "Brent the Bug Guy". He works at the Insect Zoo at the Museum of Natural History. Often, I'd email him a picture of a caterpillar or other bug we'd found and ask what kind it was, what we should feed it, etc. So I emailed him:
"Dear Brent,
My friend found a black widow and put it in a jar. While it was there, it laid an egg sac. Now what should they do? Just how poisonous are they? Is there a humane way to dispose of them? And if she does, she is worried that the descendants of the spider will come after her."
Brent's response was something like:
"Honestly, when I find black widows, I leave them where I find them. Unless you're jamming your hand into a garden glove without looking first, chances are you aren't going to be bitten. Yes, they're poisonous, but not generally deadly, and if you leave them alone, they'll leave you alone. I'd tell your friend to put the spider back where she found it. If she really wants to dispose of them, the most humane way would be to put the jar into the freezer for a couple of weeks. They'll just go to sleep from the cold and die without really suffering.
As for the descendants taking revenge, I'm not going to make any promises..."
I don't remember what she ended up doing. But, just to be safe, I don't hang around her much anymore.
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