No, this isn't a post about how my brother and I have ended up sharing our family's vacation home for the fall. But that would be an interesting post. And would mostly be a detailed list of who won the classic game of Sorry when.
This is also not a post about the family who is renting my town home while I'm here in Pitkin. But that might be a good story too, considering the last text I got from the gentlemen was whether on not I'd left an adult hamper. I'm honestly not sure if a laundry basket falls within the parameters of "furnished."
Nope. Jesse is a fun person to share space with, and my renters seem like truly lovely people. Fun and lovely. Just the kind of atmosphere I'm trying to create in my living space. But for years--my whole life, even--I've been battling an enemy that's more creepy than fun, more crawly than lovely.
I'm talking about spiders, people. The big ones and the small ones and the hairy ones. The poisonous variety, the "harmless" bunch, and the jerks who like to bite. Black, red, yellow, brown. Behind the door, in the corner, inside the toys, on the ceiling. Every spider, everywhere.
The spiders and me have never been buddies. We've never even been on speaking terms, if I'm being honest. I grew up in an attic room that was clearly their home before it was mine, and for years we fought a battle I think we both lost. Lots of bites, guts on the wall, goosebumps, and vacuum bags.
When I left the attic room, you'd think they'd have been happy to see me go. You'd think they'd have stayed behind to reclaim their space. But you'd be wrong. In the nearly two decades I've lived outside the attic room, the plague has continued.
Recently, a neighbor and friend noticed my plight. She lives two doors down in a row of townhouses, and has never seen or experienced a spider infestation like mine. Upon my departure, she even took it upon herself to bug bomb my house and suck up the dozens and dozens of spiders for the sake of my renters. Dozens and dozens.
But those dead and left behind represent the countless more that have followed me to Pitkin. Last night, as I crawled into bed, I spotted a hairy beast on the ceiling. I ran downstairs to get my spider spray, and was confronted by an even larger specimen on the stairs. Really, right now?
So why am I bugging (ha ha) you with this issue? Because I'm looking for you input, friends. For those of you who, like me, are inclined to tag and bag these little creeps, what are your methods? I'm not good at it and I'd like to get better.
And for those of you more in tune with the universe--or rather, the underworld--do you have any insights? What have I done to incite this eight-legged attack? What can I do to return balance and harmony to my bi-pedal world?
This is also not a post about the family who is renting my town home while I'm here in Pitkin. But that might be a good story too, considering the last text I got from the gentlemen was whether on not I'd left an adult hamper. I'm honestly not sure if a laundry basket falls within the parameters of "furnished."
Nope. Jesse is a fun person to share space with, and my renters seem like truly lovely people. Fun and lovely. Just the kind of atmosphere I'm trying to create in my living space. But for years--my whole life, even--I've been battling an enemy that's more creepy than fun, more crawly than lovely.
I'm talking about spiders, people. The big ones and the small ones and the hairy ones. The poisonous variety, the "harmless" bunch, and the jerks who like to bite. Black, red, yellow, brown. Behind the door, in the corner, inside the toys, on the ceiling. Every spider, everywhere.
The spiders and me have never been buddies. We've never even been on speaking terms, if I'm being honest. I grew up in an attic room that was clearly their home before it was mine, and for years we fought a battle I think we both lost. Lots of bites, guts on the wall, goosebumps, and vacuum bags.
When I left the attic room, you'd think they'd have been happy to see me go. You'd think they'd have stayed behind to reclaim their space. But you'd be wrong. In the nearly two decades I've lived outside the attic room, the plague has continued.
Recently, a neighbor and friend noticed my plight. She lives two doors down in a row of townhouses, and has never seen or experienced a spider infestation like mine. Upon my departure, she even took it upon herself to bug bomb my house and suck up the dozens and dozens of spiders for the sake of my renters. Dozens and dozens.
But those dead and left behind represent the countless more that have followed me to Pitkin. Last night, as I crawled into bed, I spotted a hairy beast on the ceiling. I ran downstairs to get my spider spray, and was confronted by an even larger specimen on the stairs. Really, right now?
So why am I bugging (ha ha) you with this issue? Because I'm looking for you input, friends. For those of you who, like me, are inclined to tag and bag these little creeps, what are your methods? I'm not good at it and I'd like to get better.
And for those of you more in tune with the universe--or rather, the underworld--do you have any insights? What have I done to incite this eight-legged attack? What can I do to return balance and harmony to my bi-pedal world?
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