Spider Date: 08.2025.3
I had devastating news today via text. My husband picked up the mail on the way home.
But we haven’t had a frost yet! Panic skittered like lighting under my skin.
The spider probably had babies by now in the mailbox. I didn’t even want to think about how long babies incubate in the egg sack. It’s bad enough that mice breed every two weeks.
(You’re welcome people who are terrified of mice.)
I drove up the lane, pondering how many spiders might be scurrying across my floor with their long, hairy legs, tapping their fangs together.
Maybe I could stay at a hotel tonight.
A pile of mail was scattered on the kitchen counter.
There were boxes, manilla envelopes, bills, credit card offers, AARP membership applications (that alone was horrifying. I’m not that old.) I scanned the mail like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of coyotes. My heart literally bounced in my chest.
“Did you tap the envelopes on the mailbox?” I whispered.
“No,” my husband replied washing his hands in the sink.
I swallowed an enormous lump in my throat. I had to get the envelopes. There were bills to pay, and I am highly protective of my credit score.
My fingers brushed across the manilla enveloped, tweaking it just slightly. I snatched the regular envelopes, backing away, an adrenaline spike rocketing through me.
My husband just stared at me. “Are you alright?”
“Yup. Fine. I’ll be right back,” I said, holding the envelopes at arm’s length away from my body. I rushed into the office, cleared the already cluttered desk with my free arm and gave the envelopes a solid whack on the desk. Then threw the envelopes on the floor, shut the door quickly, took a deep breath.
Just to be safe, I will not open the door for a week. You never know where the babies might be.
But inside the office were my beloved books. What if spiders enjoyed books?
Well this would be the last time I read a real book until winter. I do have my Kindle as a backup.
The rest of the manilla envelopes, I’d let my son open. He loved to open Amazon packages. I might even lie and tell him they were his.
And when he opens them, I will be outside, pretending to start the grill, stare at the birds, pet the cats, something.
Crisis averted for now.
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