So, I'm an antophobe. Insectophobe? Anti-ant-guy? Whatever. I hate bugs.
My apartment in New York was "relatively" bug-free. But we know that "relatively" means: "Considered in comparison with something else." So compared with SOME Manhattan apartments, mine was bug-free.
In the bathroom, we had these teeeeeeeeny tiny roaches that would appear once a month or so. Very small. At first, it was GROSS. After awhile, we just kinda got used to 'em. They never ventured out of the bathroom. Apparently we had an unwritten agreement: "You never come out of the bathroom, and I'll never FREAK OUT."
Now, on THREE occasions we had BIG roaches.
Even: something-that-should-be-fighting-Godzilla big. Neighbors would say, "Oh, those are just water bugs." Ha! That's like saying those pubic lice are just happy-little-itchy-critters.
That was a poor analogy (simile?)
On those three times, I'm ashamed to say that I wigged. (Is that still a thing?) I'm not all "girly" or anything. Don't misconstrue. I don't jump up on the chair like women do when they see a mouse in a Disney cartoon.
BUT, I don't mind snakes and Indiana Jones "hates snakes", so I figure every man has an Achilles Heel.
If you'll indulge me for a moment, I'll tell you why.
:AJ lies on couch:
:you take out notepad and start nodding every minute or so:
:cue harp riff to imply a memory/dream sequence:
When I was four years old, I was out in the backyard playing in my kiddie pool. You know the ones? Hard plastic? Easily cracked? The ones Dad would buy at Toys-backward-R-Us and tie on the roof of his station wagon with "twine"? And then drive home with his arm out the window, valiantly trying to prevent his new purchase from becoming a sail and taking flight onto the Long Island Expressway? Yeah, those.
I'm in the pool and Mom sets up a picnic for me. She lays out my favorite blanket and gives me a plate of peanut butter sandwiches. Great spread. I don't remember what beverages I was into at the time, but knowing Mom it was probably milk. ("Vitamin D, Calcium, essential for strong bones and healthy teeth. But that's probably all Greek to you, Mr. Gingivitis")
So, I'm having my soak and feel like a snack. I hop out of the pool and plop my wrinkled caboose on my favorite binky and gobble down my sandwhiches and bone-building beverage. I scoop up my trash and wrap my soft blanket around me. Ahhh... who needs a towel? I make due with what's available.
So, I'm walking toward the backdoor to head in. Mom greets me at the door with a warm smile that starts to melt from her face. Simultaneously, my head feels itchy. I scratch my head and as I bring my hand down, I notice that it... er... *I* am COVERED in ants. Hundreds, maybe THOUSANDS of them. They are in my hair, in my ears, my face... swarming all over me.
I drop my blanket and look up at Mom just in time to see her face go
to UTTER PANIC.
And then the screaming starts.
No... not me. MOM.
She flips out.
She is shrieking and screeching and completely losing her fecking mind. She starts flailing her arms and smacking at me like I'm on fire.
By now, I'm working on a pretty good anxiety attack myself.
I'm swatting at myself trying to flick off a zillion ants, and the same time I have to dodge and parry a fury of open handed bitch slaps from my screaming mother.
Not easy. That bitch is FAST.
Next, she grabs my tiny hand and YANKS me to "the hose."
Yeah. Like that.
She stripped me down to my four-year-old bare ass and hosed me down in the backyard. All the while we are both wailing and howling and screaming bloody murder. It must have been a sight. It sounds like a screentest for Oz or something.
Ever since then, I don't like bugs.
So last night I take out the garbage. The dumpster is, what, 20 feet from my backdoor? I throw on sneakers grab the heftybag and walk it out to the dumpster, flip it in and return.
All told: it's a 20-30 second round trip.
I sit in my zebra-stripped computer chair, sit down to blog about *something else* and suddenly, I'm itchy.
I scratch my leg and feel something odd. I look at my finger, I just killed a little ant.
I scratch. Another ant.
A G A I N.
To self: "Don't freak out. Don't freak out. Don't freak out."
I didn't freak, but let's say that "I was upset."
I killed 22 ants over the course of the next few minutes. All that I picked up from walking to the dumpster and back. I guess it's because I walked on the grass. Apparently we humans should stick to the pavement and leave the ants to the lawn.
They've gotten in the apartment twice and I instantly ran to K-Mart for spray, traps, everything.
But this time the little bastards GOT ME.
They drew First Blood.
Next time, the blood with be theirs.