The French are very practical people.
The same word for “to scratch” (gratter) can be used for “to itch.” It only makes sense. Why would you scratch if you didn’t itch? And if you had an itch, unless you’re practicing some form of self denial, you’d scratch it under most circumstances (or get someone to do it for you), right?
Saturday morning I discovered three small bites — one on my shoulder and two on my back — but by yesterday morning I had a whole arc of bites, with a cluster on my shoulder. Last night, I didn’t sleep because of the itching. The Frenchman called Dr. K early and he said he’d see me at 9:00am. I flew out of here with a sandwich in hand to the bus while The Frenchman took care of some pressing home business.
Dr. K confirmed that I had been a steady meal for spiders the last two nights. But I love spiders! I feel so guilty killing one, it’s ridiculous. It used to stem from my pagan ideals: spiders were sacred omens of industry and flawless, skilled work, representative of the goddess Arachne. So, I tended to not kill them when I found them unless it was really necessary. One day, I was standing in the bathroom of my Hollywood apartment with Ophelia when a spider appeared in front of her. As she watched it curiously, I said, “Look, Ophy! It’s an omen!”
Ophelia bent forward and ate the omen in one gulp.
That’s when I decided maybe spiders were so not magical after all. I mean, my damned familiar just ate one unceremoniously. Since then, I realized that I simply like spiders. However, our housekeeper this morning killed all the spiders that I had been indulging except the one daddy long legs in the toilette area. And I am not sorry.
Time for another nap.