April 27, 2006
Creepy-crawly encounter
There was nothing itsy-bitsy about this eight- legged terror.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Many early societal lessons watermarked my life: Mismatched socks are not for public display; elbows are never on tables; girls should have a healthy fear of spiders.

Growing up, I was taught that Granddaddy Long Legs were good, but that all other spiders deserved death by lethal indigestion.

I once sprayed half a can of poisonous spray on a hairy black beast and, still screaming, fled the room to let him die alone. How kindhearted of me.

This practice changed several years ago when a former, insect-friendly boyfriend convinced me that spiders are good.

In fact, in our first weeks of summer dating, every time he kissed me a spider appeared somewhere in the backdrop of romance.

Seriously.

We took this as a good omen.

To this day it would take a miracle, and about one million dollars, to get me to kill any bug.
I have changed my evil ways; this is not to say I'm not still afraid.

I was lounging and reading on my boyfriend's couch last week while he was at work.

In my peripheral vision a small shadow glided down from the ceiling. I stopped to look at the biggest, hairiest, best-legged spider I'd ever seen in my life.

In a faint whisper I spoke: help me.

He fell to the floor and I whimpered.

Gingerly, I climbed over the back of the couch and tiptoed to the kitchen to retrieve a glass in which to trap him.

Seconds later I returned but he'd vanished. Foiled! How could this happen?

I quarantined the sunken living room and kept a watchful eye out for my fuzzy friend from a safe, distant chair.

My boyfriend came home and (shocking) wondered what the hell I was doing.

"I'm catching a spider." (So obvious.)

"Catching a spider?" he asked (which I predicted he'd say). "Why not killing a spider?"

"Oh, didn't I mention? I don't kill spiders or bugs."

He probably would have preferred me repeating my dating history to this particular comment. But he laughed and said, "You're very weird" and helped me look for him (or her -- who knows?).

As we moved furniture and shook curtains the spider got larger in my memory.

"He was four inches, maybe five, with dangling long-legs . . . 12 or so."

We never found him.

That night I positioned a high-powered oscillating fan on the living room floor to keep Spidey contained. (I don't think they hunt human prey during windstorms.)

My boyfriend shook his head. Men needn't understand women; just love and tolerate.