There’s a Spider in the Bathroom

I noticed it this morning before my shower.  It’s sitting up by the ceiling, above the medicine cabinet.  About the side of a nickel (counting the legs).

It’s a white spider, which my mother-in-law claims is the sign of a clean house.  Join me in a guffaw.

Let’s get something clear.  I don’t pick up dead spiders.  I will squish one with a shoe and leave it there until my husband gets home to clean up the carnage.  He no longer bothers to ask me why there is a random shoe sitting in a random spot.  He knows to grab a tissue and clean up what’s under the shoe.

That’s our system.

I can’t use a shoe on this spider because I can’t think of a way to make the shoe adhere to the wall in a way that won’t damage the paint.  Duct tape is out of the question, as is gorilla glue.

The weird thing is that the spider will probably still be there in the same spot when my husband gets home this afternoon, which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that spiders are, by their very nature, suicidal.

Maybe being one of the ickiest creatures on planet earth triggers their self-loathing, I’ll-just-sit-here-until-John-gets-home-so-he-can-squash-me attitude.

I can think of no other logical explanation.

I had a writing point. What was it?

Oh, yeah.

If I sit on a story while waiting six months for a publisher to get around to rejecting it, I start to feel like that suicidal spider.  Just sitting there.  Not moving.  Not looking for an alternative.  Knowing full well that if I don’t hear from them in three weeks it’s not going to end well.  Waiting for the publisher to whip out a shoe and squash me.

I’m not cleaning that up.


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