But my holiday hasn’t produced a single shot of special egg nog. No mistletoe kisses, either.
Instead of sugar plums, my slumber is interrupted by weird little spider cricket things.
Some people call them sprickets; others refer to them as cave spiders.
I can’t really print what I call the awful looking fear mongers.
I have no idea why I am just now making this discovery. I’ve been around Indiana for 100 years yet I never knew about these yucky beings until now, when I am old enough for a stroke and susceptible to a weak bladder when horrified.
My nightmare began a week ago when I spotted one of these horrible insects strolling along the edge of my coffee table.
“I have never seen a cricket in December,” I muttered under my breath.
The big skinny legs made me assume that it was a cricket. However, as I leaned closer to examine it, I saw the rest of its body. “It isn’t a cricket,” I said as I shuddered. “It isn’t a spider, either.”
When it started to crawl toward me I labeled that scary thing with a word I can’t print.
“Those things jump,” one of my friends said. “They jump right at you. Did you know that?”
An awful vision of a flying spider cricket monster paralyzed me.
“Jump?” I whispered. “Do they bite or sting?”
“Oh honey, those terrible things don’t have to bite or sting,” she said. “They try to kill you with shock.”
“Because they jump in your direction?” I asked.
She nodded before adding, “They crawl into the house from furnace vents. They also multiply like crazy.”
I must add here that I have a vivid and sometimes unmanageable imagination.
When my head went crazy I started to imagine flying cricket spiders filling the bath tub while I was in it. I was afraid they would cover my pillows at night and dive bomb my face when I stretched out on the couch to watch TV.
And then, with no warning, those yuck masters upped the ante.
Last night a cricket spider lurked in the shadow, two steps away from the bathroom.
“I am not afraid,” I lied.
To caution against the creature flying at my face, I hid behind a couch pillow and threw a book. But since I could miss hitting the side of a barn, the nasty culprit rolled his eyes. I then threw a towel on top of it and did some River Dancing on the towel, hoping to kill that bad bug several times.
But the monster lived on.
Yes, he crawled away unscathed.
“Oh my gosh, what do I need?” I hissed. “A sword? A grenade?”
While blowing kisses at me, the flying cricket spider slowly sat down in the bathroom doorway.
“Get out!” I screamed.
“Nope,” he shook his head.
When I shouted, “I’m telling Santa!” the bug shrugged.
“Santa, cricket spiders have captured the house,” I wailed while running away from it. “That means I have to pee outside until you get here.”
Sherri Coner is an award-winning journalist and humor writer who speaks to women’s groups. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.