Tuesday, June 30, 2015

river dancing to kill bugs is a thing

I have this thing with bugs.
I don't actually like them.
But if they promise to keep their distance and not to touch me,
I will let them live their little buggy lives in peace and I will live mine.
Unfortunately, they keep trying to make friends.
Especially, the ones with wings.
Some of you who have been reading here for a long time remember the
Cicada Incident of 2003....most of you probably do not...but here is the thing....
bugs should not be allowed to fly.
I get it. They need to get places.
It just that I don't want to be their destination of choice.
Just the other day, Scott said to me casually, "Oh, there is a bug starting to go down your shirt."
That is not something that you just say to a person.
Because I come from a line of people who are willing to shed clothes when
critters are trying to go up or down them.
I distinctly remember my very modest Grandma Blakeley telling me once that
she had a lizard go up her pant leg while picking almonds in the orchard and
she said if she hadn't been able to shake it out, her pants were the next things to go.
It seems reasonable to me.
There can be no restrictions in place when trying to rid yourself of said critter.
Scott's statement resulted in a wide variety of movement from me.
Shaking. Jumping. Arm flailing. And screams of:
"Where is it?" and "Is it gone?" and "Why aren't you helping me?"
And he just stood there taking it all in and laughed.
It's not that funny. I have had one too many bug run-ins
I have had:
1. a grasshopper fly into my hair during an outdoor wedding resulting in the undoing
of a very pompadour-ish hairstyle,
2. several cicadas dive bomb me and land on my person,
3. a praying mantis (at my children's school) take up residence first,
on my right leg and then as a result of a very high cheerleader kick, land on my left leg,
4. some kind of flying bug land on my lips during a Bible Study which
resulted in a lot of raspberry sounds mid-exegesis,
5. don't even get me started on how many moths have tried to beat their felt-y wings
against my forehead, (sidenote: why are moths gross and butterflies cute? I don't know...)
and these are just a few examples.
The bugs? They love me.
The other night a junebug flew into our kitchen and started flying towards me.
First of all, don't junebugs live in Arizona? Or New Mexico?
And secondly, don't we pay a gagillion dollars to live in the Bay Area to NOT
have flying bugs in the summer?
If we are going to start having bugs, I want my rent lowered.
And thirdly, just don't fly into my kitchen, junebug. Just don't do it.
It took a pass at my head and then landed at my feet where upon I proceeded
to a do a river dance of stomping and high stepping to try and kill it.
I was getting some height and lift on those high kicks, kids, I really was.
Which caused Scott to say, "Sue, you are going to throw your back out again."
And then Addie said, "Where did it go?"
So at that point I had pulled an upper thigh muscle and had a flying bug on the loose
in the house.
I retired to my bedroom and closed the door. I was done for the night.
No, thank you, junebug.
And then this morning a wasp flew straight at my face when I was out watering the plants.
Don't even get me started on bugs that inflict injury.
They are clearly a result of the fall.
A clear menace and blight upon all the goodness that this world has to offer.
I am pretty sure I woke up the neighbors with my screams and the Maori slap dance
that I performed in my backyard.
The sad news is that I feel like the bugs are ramping up.
There has been an increase in bug activities and sightings in our yard.
They just don't give up.
So..where does that leave me?
Mostly, it leaves me thinking I need to do more stretching to limber myself up.
If the bugs want to try to dance with this partner?
It will be their last dance.
I will be BRINGING. IT. Have no doubt.
I will high kick, jazz hands, river dance,
and stomp my way through this entire summer if I have to.
If you are in the area, feel free to stop by.
It could be quite a show.

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