The Itsy Bitsy Big @ss Spider

I grew up in the country. Not the country, country, where the closest neighbor is at least a mile down the road. I'm talking about the country where you have at least an acre and the roads are unpaved. The kind of country that's quiet, where you ride a small tractor and get just enough of nature to appreciate it, but not enough to fear it. On any given day, you could see a deer or an occasional fox — beautiful from a distance, with a solid barrier between us.

When I moved away from the "country" — not to be confused with the "country, country" — it was a bit of a shock. I went from carpeted floors, multiple rooms, a big kitchen, and a basement to a small, dirty, one-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood that fit no one's definition of quiet.

I didn't speak to my neighbors, not because I'm bougie — they mostly spoke Spanish and I mostly spoke English. A friendly smile or wave was about all I could offer.

One day, I came home from work and my neighbor greeted me at my door. I'd never met her, but she kindly told me my apartment had been burglarized and to be careful because RATS were trying to come through the vents. Freaking RATS. She said they were trying to get to her babies. I moved.

Apartments two, three, and five were excellent finds. Rodent free. Safe. Peaceful.

But I got greedy with apartment four. Apartment three was in a new luxury building with amenities, but I didn't love the location. I found apartment four in the perfect location. Yes, I sacrificed some amenities for location, but it seemed worth it.

I was wrong.

That beautiful new building was infested with mice. I'd be sitting in the living room watching television when something would race by so fast, I thought I was hallucinating. Spoiler alert: I wasn't. I lasted about two years before I had to get out of there.

I'll skip over apartment five because apartment six — now that's a different story.

I have a problem with mice. I lay spin traps, and as soon as I catch one, another one emerges. I finally worked up enough courage to pull the refrigerator out and tried to seal the gap. I'm not sure if I accidentally sealed a couple inside, because I've already caught one — but I'm hoping this last one is it.

In the meantime, we've learned to peacefully coexist.

I've gotten used to seeing certain bugs and vermin. I can't say I like them, but I'm used to them. I like to think we have an understanding — they stay in their corner and I stay in mine. If they get in my way, I either give them a wide berth or, if they can be handled with a healthy dose of Home Defense, I go that route. With all of this experience under my belt, I've learned to cope.

During my research for my BlExpat destination, one of the things I considered was the kind of bugs and rodents I should be aware of. I saw nothing about Mérida that gave me pause.

The carpenter who's been working in the apartment there, getting things ready for my arrival, texted me out of the blue one day. We were cordial and exchanged pleasantries — he and I are from the same state, so there's an extra layer of friendliness. He mentioned he'd been back at the house, which is basically unlocked at this point, and said he'd found a couple of critters.

I don't know what I was picturing when he said that. Just regular bugs, I guess. He said he took a picture of one and sent it to me. It was in the shower, getting ready to clean itself. Before I could even enlarge and squint, he texted me: "Yes, that is a tarantula."

A mother freaking TARANTULA, y'all!!!

I mean, those were the exact words that came to mind. I stayed cool, though — I wasn't there yet, and I couldn't very well panic about a place that was about to be my home.

He followed up by recommending I have someone come in and spray for bugs. And, as is typical of the kindness I've encountered in Mérida, he offered to find an exterminator or suggested I contact my realtor to see if she knew someone.

He also added this: tarantulas aren't common in that area.

So — you know me a little by now — you know I wasn't going to panic. But my brain went into overdrive. The community is a little secluded. There's a long dirt road with several gated communities off it, and if you turn off the main dirt road and go all the way to the end, that's where my development is. Since it's an up-and-coming area, there's still a lot of green space, dirt, and open land. Honestly, I wouldn't mind if it stays that way — we need all the green we can get.

There's also the fact that the house has been unlocked to allow workers in and out. In addition to the carpenter, one of the countertops had to be replaced, and contractors have been coming through for the railing, shower doors, gate, and other things. Someone could have easily and unknowingly brought one in on their clothes or gear.

Or maybe it had been living there the whole time and finally revealed itself.

Frankly, this is precisely the reason I wanted light countertops. I can't see well on a good day — did you really think I'd be able to spot a bug on a black countertop? I would not. It was almost a dealbreaker for me in this development because visibility mattered. Unfortunately, the developer was steadfast and refused to change them. I decided instead to go with light-colored cabinetry — at least I'd be able to spot something there.

I also made a conscious decision to buy light-colored furniture. I know, I know — it's a risk. But I'm doing it anyway. The kids will not be drinking anything while sitting on the white sofa or yellow chairs.

Ordinarily, I'd go darker on the rug to hide spills, but I'm going light there too. That's a risk even for me. I've spilled so many things on my dark brown rug at home, and you can't see the wine or coffee stains. Still looks brand new, if you ask me.

I haven't told my Mother about any of this because she would absolutely lose it. I'mma do my best Olivia Pope and handle it.