Thursday, April 26, 2018

The Horror Continues

No, not terrifying at all. Approachable, really. Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash

Morning Readers,

Ok, so I really didn't want to drag this nonsense into another week, but here we are.

Over the last few days, I mentally tallied everything I wanted to write about: food, sleep, how, if I had a million dollars, I'd buy SO many donuts. And, just as I thought I'd picked something mildly entertaining, I was pulled from my reverie by a buzzing sound next to my window.

No.

The reason that word's struck so dramatically by itself is because that particular buzzing sound triggered memories of a gorgeous, sunny morning last summer, when I jogged downstairs, grabbed a handful of Lucky Charms (now with unicorns!), grabbed a cup of coffee, and made my way to the living room.

I sat down.

Now, I've experienced significant amounts of pain in my years- childbirth, surgery, ripping a band aid off too fast- but the fire that rocketed through my butt that Better Homes and Gardens day was, shall we say, not pleasant. I handled it ok though.

"Mother ******." I threw the remote and pictures on the mantel went down like milk bottles at a country fair.

I used my cool problem solving skills and hours of watching Sherlock to deduce my predicament.

"What?!"

"What iiiiiis it?"

"Sweet, Flavor Flav's clock, what is going on?"

Frantically clutching my spasming back, I searched the couch. Finding nothing, I jumped to the next logical conclusion.

"Kids? Kids, get me the laptop. This is how those strokes start. Ugh, I need to check WebMD and see if I should call 911 or risk weaving us all down the highway with an eighty-percent chance of making it there. Find your helmets."

With no one particularly interested in my impending death, I limped up the stairs, flipped up my shirt, and examined the damage in the mirror. There, barely visible, were two, small holes in my hip.

It meant more walking, but I half-slid, half-stumbled back down the stairs and combed the carpet. A waning buzz floated from a far corner and pulled my eyes to a giant wasp in its death throws.

"Right. It's the broom for you."

There haven't been many times in my life when I've resembled Babe Ruth (only three by my count), but, as I followed through with the force of all bristles, there was something majestic about it.

Fast forward to what recent developments mean to heroine of the story...

"The house isn't exactly air tight, babe. There's probably a nest somewhere."

I sat staring dumbly at Husband, while my arms made wing motions. "But that's the third one I've found in three days. In the house. Where we live!"

He nodded, gave me a look somewhere between sympathy and amusement, and continued searching for a more sane wife on his phone.

Glancing up at the picture window a story above me, I shuddered as a shiny, black body banged into the glass, over and over. It's anger was palpable, and there wasn't a doubt in my mind that, once enough rage had built, he'd exit his perch and head for my butt.

I shook my head. "Well, I'm not going to stand for it. They're invading our house. What is it with insects and our life? Was this house built on some sort of ancient bug burial ground and now we're paying for it? Tell me that, Carol Anne."

*This spot reserved for exhausted sighs*

So, while the silverfish, firebrat, and carpet beetle population seam to be tapering off, the wasps have infiltrated somehow.

I can't find a nest.

I've looked everywhere.

If I die and this becomes my unfinished business, I'm going to be really unhappy. In the meantime, I'll be wondering how wasps are wiggling through my window frames. Because that's fun.

I'm gonna need more unicorn marshmallows in my Lucky Charms.

Until Next Time, Readers!



And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Night of the Silverfish

Not the scene of the crime, but close enough. 
Photo by Bekah Russom on Unsplash
Morning Readers,

So there's been an on-going struggle in my life, but for the last three years, I decided to keep it to myself and suffer in silence.

No more.

When we moved into the Oak Palace, blissfully unaware was the state I operated in. We unpacked, organized, and tried to figure out how to cobble bunk beds back together. Husband stacked things in the garage. I shoved stacks of clothes into closets. And all was right with the world.

Except it wasn't.

Several months after occupying the new house, I went to retrieve clothes from the back of my closet, and every single shirt, skirt, and pair of treasured leggings I'd put away while pregnant with Mrs. Jones was filled with holes. An entire trash bag of Lycra happiness made its way to the curb and I began battling the infestation.

As it turns out, we weren't warned that, along with a front porch without a railing, we were receiving the bonus gift of silverfish, carpet beetles, and the silverfish's uglier cousin, the firebrat.

I found all this out while Googling, "Whaaaaat is haaaaaapppeeeeening?"

A few, helpful search responses described the horrific state we'd found ourselves in. Every, single one of the aforementioned species of insect is incredibly hard to get rid of, and the process of vanquishing the enemy takes, roughly, a thousand years. In the meantime, they content themselves with ruining lives and underwear. 

So, when I haven't been making a living writing terrible jokes on the internet, the rest of my time's been spent looking out for slivers of terror shooting across bedroom walls and bathroom floors.

Pros: They can't eat you. Even if they want to, their mouths are too small. *waves tiny victory flag*

Cons: They destroy everything else. Shirts, pants, paper, socks, blankets, will to live.

No matter how many times it happens, I'll never get used to the amount of adrenaline my body shoots into my heart, the minute I chance to pad to the bathroom at 2am and see something unholy wiggle up or down the drain. It's not right. That type of shock can kill someone in their eighties.

But here I am, a woman in her thirties, who's only mission is to keep her kids fed and check for irregular holes in her spanx. Thankfully, in the past three years, we've made huge strides in decreasing the overall insect population. Nights spent hugging cans of Raid, two bathroom remodels, and diligently throwing a shoe anything that moves have, most likely, decimated the enemy numbers.

Things had been fairly quiet.

Nothing had crawled back to eat a matching hole in the left butt cheek of my favorite leggings.

A modicum of peace had descended on the house.

But then, that's when things usually go to hell.

Several nights ago, overcome by the exhaustion of making sloppy joes and yelling at people to stop eating markers, I threw on a Royals shirt with only two insect holes in the armpit and stumbled to bed. Yawning, I yanked back the comforter, ready to put a dent in some memory foam, and recoiled in horror. There sat the enemy.

"Wha- What are you doing here?"

The silver droplet, seemingly unconcerned it was about to die, stared lazily up at me.

Fumbling behind me for a shoe, I seized on the opportunity to monologue. "I honestly don't know what you think you're doing, but a line has been crossed here. This is where I sleep."

Nothing.

"Don't you get it? It's my sanctuary. Where I sit and contemplate lost potential. Eat nachos. Watch to stupid shows about mermaids on low budget networks."

The shoe was swift and unmerciful.

There's something truly violating about finding insects in one's bed. Even after the remnants had been cleared away, I shuddered as I slipped under the sheets and tried not to think about what else was thinking about slithering over my unsuspecting body.

It's been a few days, and I haven't spotted any other intruders, but the fight is wearing on my nerves. Admittedly, it seems like we're winning, but at what cost? If I had a body bag for every insect I've taken out, this place would look like CSI, CSI: Miami, CSI: New York, and any other CSI I've missed because that franchise has gotten out of control.

Is there a big enough supply of Kilz to cover the grease spots where the Lepisma saccharina have gone to meet Jesus?

All I know is, if we ever move, the next owners are getting a bug-less house. I'm making sure of it. We should be able to live in a world where it's safe to put a cheap sweater in a closet, pull it back out, and know the only holes in it came from a late night trip to Taco Bell, when you tripped over the sidewalk in your haste to get a chalupa.

Then again, the world is also held together by impossible dreams.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go buy more Raid.


Until Next Time, Readers!


And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on: