You remember that overgrown spider who disappeared in my bathroom a week or so ago, right?

He's back.

And taunting me from his perch 20 feet higher than my head.

I've been on high alert ever since the day he disappeared. Two days later, I moved some papers on the desk in my bedroom, and his petite cousin scurried into my desk drawer to hide. The drawer! I ask you, what was I to do?

First I shrieked. Then I prayed.

Beside himself with glee at my predicament, my husband laughed from the other side of the room while I timidly yanked the drawer open, jumped back, waited, slammed the drawer shut, jumped back, waited, yanked it open again, jumped back, waited, found a nearby ruler to stir things up a bit, then shrieked and jumped back again when the little acrobat bungee jumped from the desk to the carpet below.

"Wilfred's getting away again!" Jeremy The Vigilant informed me, thrilled that I was being bested by the same arachnid.

"That's not Wilfred!" I responded, trying desperately not to lose the creature in the fibers of the rug, "She's too small. This is his cousin, Trina. Throw me a shoe! I need a shoe!"

He tossed me a flimsy slipper and called out, "You're really going to kill a helpless little spider named Trina?"

The slipper disappointed me. I had been hoping for a sturdy, steel-toed boot to do the deed. The flexibility of the slipper meant I'd have to put my hand farther down on the shoe and thus closer to the object of my murderous intent. "I sure hope so." I muttered, not at all sure of my ability to do so. Not after Wilfred's mysterious get-away earlier that week.

I smooshed the slipper into the thick carpeting, and Trina, whether by her own powers or forced upwards by the springy fibers, jumped about a foot sideways and closer to me. I screamed again and lost all control of my arm. It slammed and slammed and slammed and slammed, until Jeremy shouted, "Stop! She's got to be dead by now!"

My heart thudded loudly in the silence. I slowly removed the slipper from the small black body and watched for a flicker of movement. Finally, convinced she wasn't faking, I stood up to get a burial shroud from the bathroom. I planned to bury her at sea in a solemn ceremony, but when I returned to the scene of her death, I couldn't find her. Not even a chalk outline helped me remember exactly where she had been.

Another few days passed. As has now become my habit, I checked the bathroom doorway and ceiling for Wilfred the Terrible upon entry, and this time, I didn't even flinch when I found his adjutant, Darius, sitting over the garden tub. I considered mustering my artillery battalion, but two resounding defeats in a row had my men discouraged. I took in their state of despair and the enemy positioned on the higher ground and decided it would be a more strategic move to let this battle pass. My troops needed more time to recover and rebuild before our next engagement; besides, lulling Darius into a false sense of security could prove to be the smartest move yet in my war against Wilfred the Terrible.

It has now been almost two weeks since my first and last sighting of Wilfred. Until yesterday. I sat in my favorite ugly upholstered rocking chair, drinking in the silence of naptime. My shoulder muscles slowly relaxed, my head finally dropped back against the headrest, and I saw him. Lounging about ten inches from the highest point of the living room's cathedral ceiling, Wilfred sits and watches.

He knows I cannot reach him. He has seen the burned out bulbs in our living room light and has correctly surmised that not even our ten foot ladder can come to our aid. Great strategist that he is, he also waited until I decorated the fireplace mantel for Valentine's Day with a length of red tulle, white lights and glass framed pictures of my love and I. He knows, he knows I will not risk firing at him only to have his heavy body drop onto the breakable items below.

For two days, we have stood at an impasse -- I, surreptitiously glancing at him from time to time, pretending that he matters naught to me, and he, laughing to himself as he reclines on my living room wall, his legs crossed, his chin resting on his knees, observing my habits, learning my movements.

I will tell only you this: I am feeling at a distinct disadvantage. Thankfully, spiders cannot read -- I would eat my blog before allowing him to know how I am feeling at this moment.