Don’t be deceived by the romance of a warm tropical night, gentle breezes, and swaying palms — there are countless eyes in the shadows watching us, studying us. I know this because I’ve met them, face-to-face — or rather face-to-web. Just recently, I managed to entertain a whole new set of neighbors with my spider web dance, the kind where I flail my arms all around me, overdramatically brushing webs from my face and hair.
The difference, though, between these South Florida webs and my Long Island webs was that these seemed a bit thicker and gooier — but there was no sign of the spider that spun this mess.
Generally speaking, I like spiders. They provide a valuable garden service. I just want them to keep their webs out of my space and I’ll gladly stay out of theirs.
Then came the morning when I — in what can only be described as a Little Miss Muffet moment — had the feeling I was being watched. It wasn’t the sort of staring that comes from the countless lizards scurrying and sunning about. I’ve grown accustomed to them.