I didn’t speak to Google for like, 10 whole minutes. Yes, I was that angry. BUGS?? Does Google have any idea how much I’m rattled by bugs? Did my endless searches for places to live in the world that are completely free of bugs not ring any bells? Was I overestimating Google’s intelligence? (incidentally, Google says there are practically no bug free existences if you don’t count Antarctica – and I don’t)
Then Google gently nudged me, looking all big-eyed and rueful. Check out the Ten Funniest Chandler Bing moments. I caved. Oh Google, I can’t be mad at you. So we decided to agree to disagree about what constitutes PG-13. As a precaution, I informed Google that I’m upping the ruling for information to “for general audiences” (no matter how much Spongebob it puts me at risk for).
I wasn’t sure what to write about. I was thinking maybe a continuation of my “spring” blog somehow, but I wasn’t sure where to go with it. Then I had the aha moment…although maybe not so much aha as just ah!! A gargantuan spider (no, I’m not exaggerating…when do I ever do that? I mean, we’re talking a raisin with legs) (and you’re welcome, for making sure that you never eat another raisin) propelled down from the ceiling towards my face. Towards my face. Naturally, I screamed and ran away before he landed on my pillow. You know. The place where my head sometimes rests? I dispatched the people that weren't me to go in there. I gave strict instructions to get rid of it by whatever means possible. I gave them a spatula, two-thirds of a toilet paper roll wadded up and my best pep talk.
But the spider was gone. Gone. Which, of course, means? Oh yes. He’s still. Out. There. So of all the spring things I will be involved with, sleep won’t be one of them.
Worms have a slight edge over bugs for “the grossest possible thing I can think of” but bugs are certainly up there. We get those ones with zillions of legs that go very fast (you know them…they’ve been featured in lots of horror movies). My daughter said their legs look like false eyelashes which means obviously that I can never wear false eyelashes again. Which is probably okay, since I tried that once and halfway through the event, the glue became unstuck and the eyelashes were clinging on at one end and waving around at the other - probably a little disconcerting for people talking to me.
We get those Silverfish. Not silver, not fish. This makes me question - who names bugs anyway? I’d like to have a talk with the earwig guy about overkill. What about those ones that roll into a ball when you touch them. When you touch them, that is. I am definitely not touching them. I'm not sure of the proper name, but I call them roly-bugs. (note to earwig guy: roly bug. Simple. Kinda fun. Not gruesome?)
Here’s what I don’t understand, though. When I do the spring cleaning (ie, move the couch an inch or two ahead and half-heartedly swipe a broom across) why do I find so many bugs, but why...more importantly…are they all dead? My house is the bug suicide-pact destination place. I'm torn…I mean, I like them dead? But it’s the connotation. My house is where bugs go to die? It doesn't really bode well for us…um, people?
I can’t talk about cockroaches much except to agree – yup. They exist. When my sister and I lived in an apartment together, we could not bring ourselves to kill these guys. Before you go thinking we were just these free hippie spirits, honouring all life, no matter what form – no. These guys were big enough to assume that if you squashed them, they would make a sickeningly gory sound that you could never unhear. So we’d capture them under a glass until they suffocated. Much more humane (for us). Worse still was that we’d leave them there until we were totally, absolutely sure they were dead. Two, maybe three weeks? Then you could kick the glass over and vacuum the little dude up as fast as possible. It was not uncommon for us to advise guests to “watch their step”.
A couple of years ago, we had the Asian beetle situation up here. Because I always look on the bright side (?) I can at least say these bugs are tolerable. To an extent. When they started doing the million man, sorry, bug, march across the window, showing up in the cutlery drawer, showing up in my shoe, and ambling happily across the top of my sandwich…it got a bit much. My daughters liked all the action, they were just a little disappointed that I didn’t call them ladybugs.
No honey – Asian Beetles.
But…they look like Lady Bugs!
Yes, they do, but they are a little different, so we call them Asian Beetles.
You mean they’re like Chinese Ladybugs?
No…they’re---yes. That’s adorable. They are Chinese Lady bugs.
To be okay with bugs, I really have to make an effort. I have to keep telling myself that they have a right to live. I grew up in a household where ant-traps were even set up outside and my Mom possessed a lightning fast “stomp and smear” reflex (don’t think – act).
So as long as they stay hiding behind their prospective wherevers, I will carry on as normal this spring. If they are so brazen as to come out at me, all bets are off.
I’ve got my cup, man. It’s about to be all overturned on your little bug butt.
I’ll make sure it’s not glass, so it can suffocate in dignity
...because I’m cool like that.