It's spider season, the time when they all pack their webs in their little suitcases and come inside to hide from the cold and the coming rains. I don't mind spiders, as long as they're not poisonous--I like the precise way that they walk. I just don't want them in my bed. I was clearing some of the finished books off of the other side of my head--there were a bunch of them, giving a pretty accurate picture of what's been going on around here lately--and a tiny black spider scurried across the sheet and down the other side.
A few years ago, just after I moved to Seattle, a spider got trapped between the back of my knee and my pajamas in my sleep and, panicked, proceeded to bite like crazy. Anyway, that's what we figured happened, because a few days later the hinge of my left knee was peppered with welts that turned into something deeply disgusting that eventually turned into the scars that are still there. (I have a long history of accidentally ending up with bugs in my pants, like the time some wasps built a nest in some red Winnie the Pooh pants that my mom had left on the clothes line for too long when I was a wee thing.) So no spiders in my bed. That's what the corners of the ceiling are for.
(Hey internet, I finally finished my damnable dress. Freaking Vogue and their complicated patterns.)