Well, spring has finally sprung, more or less, in New England. Don’t get me wrong — it’s still pretty damned chilly around Boston. Right now, it’s in the forties. The low forties. I walked out the door this morning, and found a scraggly little robin sitting on the porch. The bird looked at me and gave me a little ‘CHIRP‘, which I took to mean: ‘I flew back from fucking Florida for this?‘ I felt sorry for the thing, until it took a fairly-frozen poop on my car. Fricking birds.
Of course, spring also brings us other things. Like insects.
(I know, I know — I’m a hopeless romantic. Yeah.)
I’ve already been seeing a few of the little flying critters in the house, and it’s only going to get worse as the weather heats up. I’ve got this thing about bugs — I don’t like them, and they… well, they don’t really have brains, to speak of. So they probably don’t feel one way or the other about me, I suppose. As long as you’re not ‘food’, ‘sex’, or ‘roach motel’, then you’re pretty much off the radar.
(Come to think of it, that’s pretty much how I lived myself, all the way through college. And unfortunately, I spent more time avoiding roach motels than enjoying the other two. So pretty much, any bug alive is having a better time than I did in four years. Bastards.)
So, the bugs are back, and I’ve already sent a few to meet their hairy, creepy, icky little maker. But I can’t kill them all myself, and that’s why I’ve made a compromise of sorts this spring. I’ve formed an uneasy truce with the spider that lives in our bathroom.
Which is to say, I’m uneasy about it. I think we’ve pretty well established that the spider couldn’t give a gnat’s ass. Still, it’s creepy for me. I don’t normally associate with ‘that kind’ of animal, you know? Mainly, it’s all those extra body parts — that’s just freaky. And if I wanted eight legs and four pairs of eyes skittering around my house, I’d have the neighbor’s kids over to rummage through my shit. Yeah, no thanks.
But crawly bugs call for desperate measures. And the spider and I have a common enemy, so we’re a team. At least until fall, when I’ll be perfectly happy to moosh the little bastard with a shoe. That’s how I roll, baby. Ruthless. Dig it.
Of course, my wife has other ideas. She wants the thing dead now. I’ve tried to reason with her — let one bug live, and dozens might die. ‘Spare the spider, and curse the flies,’ that kind of thing. Personally, I look at the law of averages — so far as I know, there’s only one spider in the house. And there are all sorts of gnats and flies and mothy little buggers out there. So it’s really a matter of which is more likely to lay eggs in my Cheerios. My money’s on the non-spiders. But I still eyeball my breakfast before I add milk. You can never be too careful when larvae are involved. Seriously. I never want to have another one of those trips to the doctor. Whoo.
So, we’re living with a delicate balance of power. I want the bugs dead, so I let the spider live. And my wife wants the spider out — but she’s not so tall, so she can’t reach him on the ceiling. So I’ve set him up in his own little DMZ — as long as he stays up there, he’s free to gobble up the insects. And the bugs — well, they just want food and sex. Which I’m a big fan of, but not the bug kind. So basically, the spider’s getting a good deal out of this, and the rest of us are getting screwed. Or pissed. Or eaten. What was my point again?
I dunno. Springtime always makes me a little loopy. Anyway, happy Monday, folks. I’m off to keep an eye on that spider. I’ll let him stick around, but I don’t trust the little bastard.Permalink | 11 Comments