The Predisastered Pages

Nature presents us with surprising opportunities disguised as cruel tests. For instance, when Celine Dion’s theme to “Titanic” was inescapable a decade or so ago, I developed agoraphobia, which led to my current internet addiction, which in turn led to my discovery all these years later of something so wonderful, so amazing — the seemingly endless, hysterical versions of Celine’s epic track covered by every drama llama on YouTube. Thus, the social challenge of dealing with Celine’s scary ass music inadvertently enhanced my life. So what does all of this have to do with a little girl munching on a spider? 

About a month ago, my boyfriend,Russell, was out of town when the worst thing in the world happened: a spider invaded my Dunny collection. Ordinarily, I’d have blasted him with my spider-killing hairspray, thus disabling his furry body from moving fast enough to escape whichever squashing tool of death was nearest at hand. However, I didn’t want to coat my entire French Dunny series with a sticky mess. All alone and paralyzed by unfounded arachnophobia, I looked deeply into his many beady eyes. Surely, this was the luckiest eight-legged thing I’d ever met. 

When I realized my spider wasn’t going anywhere, I felt a bit better about our new living arrangement. By the time I picked my boyfriend up from his trip, I’d named our new pet “Monsieur” because he’d spun a web over our French, vinyl kiddos. I warned Russ not to bother him.

In the meantime, I continued to scream bloody murder whenever I saw any other spider. Russell claims the spiders in his house have a gang, and the only way outsider arachnids can join up is to get jumped in by the Kristan Test. See, they have to make it across the room AND back without getting smashed. The penalty for failure is death.

In his best spider-y gang leader voice, Russell mimics, “The kid and the big guy are ok, but that medium person? You have to watch out for her.”

Five years ago, Mom suckerpunched me. I thought we were headed to the Museum of Science and Natural history, which was partially true. What Mom neglected to mention was the purpose of the trip: Spider Aversion Therapy. That’s a fancy way of saying that I’d be stuck in a room, sitting in a circle with a zoologist and ten six year-olds while the group passed a tarantula around. Mom and Bella, my kid, found this beyond funny until the tarantula began to molt. That’s when the spider keeper said we had to put the weighty critter back into her home to lessen the difficulty of its shedding process. I was devastated in a real not (!) way. 

A couple of weeks ago, I caught myself talking to Monsieur as I stood above his web with my camera, “Alright, don’t move. It’s okay. I just want your picture.” My pinky finger brushed the web, and Monsieur ran underneath. “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll be careful. Hold on.” After reviewing the pictures, you couldn’t really see him. I didn’t think they served him justice, and I told Russell, “Would you please get a closer shot? He’s much cuter than what I captured with my camera.” I was well on my way to teaching Monsieur spider tricks, like how to spell fancy words spinneret style. I even worried about his food consumption.

“Russell?”

“Yep?”

“I haven’t noticed Monsieur moving around as much lately. Do you think he’s getting enough bugs? Should we move him?”

Total eye roll. “Well, he isn’t in a real high traffic area.”

“He has a bug right now, though.”

Further inspection revealed Monsieur’s shocking secret. “Kristan, that’s an egg sac.” Not particularly thrilled with any of our options, we decided to remove the sac today.

Not our Monsieurette, but you get the idea.

As Russell carefully extracted the ball of tiny Monsieurettes with his tweezers, I felt truly awful for my spider chica. With her babies outside and missing, she’s quickly covering the surface of her web, repairing the hole caused by the tweezers, and trying to find the sac. If someone’d just plucked Bella from my life, I’d be out of my mind. I told Russell, “This is the only spider I’ve ever liked.” With that, he offered me chocolate mousse from the fridge (the cure for all sadness). In mourning for my new friend’s missing babies, I settled for a plain, old, gluten-free ginger snap. Maybe later, I’ll do my own YouTube version of Celine’s “The Heart Will Go On” complete with my blurry images of Monsieurette during her happier, more fruitful times.

Bonding with My Mortal Enemy wasn’t what I’d expected, but I believe the ebb and flow of natural events are somehow guilty of weaving sub-plots into the webs of our lives. 

Sometimes, it takes something small and frighteningly ugly in order to see what is hugely beautiful.