Spider's last stand

I feel like recently, the spider in my mailbox has taken over every part of my life--from this blog to my Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons. Rest assured, this will be the last spider entry. Why? Because that spider is DEAD. But not without a fight.

There's not much of a story here. Everything played out like I feared it would. K fetched the mail, brought it back to the patio, and held it while she talked to my parents who were visiting for the weekend. I hear my dad shout "Stop!" Dad swiped the mail and crushed the spider that had finally calculated her attack by attaching herself to a catalog for a community college.

Whew.

With any luck, that millipede I saw crawl into the house this morning wasn't best friends with that spider. Just in case, I'd better plug up my ears when I sleep...

Spider goes postal

If spiders have families, one exists in my mailbox. This puts me in an uncomfortable position because not only do I have a jittery case of arachnophobia, but I am also a Mail-o-phile. I really love mail. If there was a sliding scale to measure my adoration, I'd be up with the 80-year-old widows with Country Home Living subscriptions. I'm like a Labrador: when I think I hear the mailman, I will press my snout against the window. (HE should be the one who's embarrassed. At least I'm not wearing short shorts and long socks.) There's a little formula I've come up with, which unfortunately confirms that it's only going to get worse.

Spiders in mailbox = Time/Love of mail

Which means that the longer I wait, the more spiders there will be. And the more I let my love drop, the more spiders there will be. Granted, I think my units are all off (if anyone has a formula to convert spiders into time, lemme know), but spiders aren't good at math either so I think it's a wash.

As you can imagine, absolutely nothing can be done about this. The spiders are deep inside the box, so I can't just reach in and try to squish them. That's what they'd WANT me to do. I can't get a new mailbox because the guy with the short shorts and long socks will know that I'm weak and steal all my detergent samples because he'll know I crumble like a cookie.

Maybe I'll get some tongs.