Thursday, February 9, 2006

the post in which I gross myself out so thoroughly that I may not blog without feeling itchy for weeks on end. We used to sit and talk about places we wanted to live, my friends and I. There were the quaint scenery people (Italy, Scotland, Wales), the adventurers (Kenya, Nepal, Guatemala), the beach freaks (Jamaica, Hawaii, Australia), the urbanites (NYC, Paris, L.A.), the oddballs (Bismarck, San Diego, Seattle), and me. I just wanted to make sure I chose a location where there would be a minimum of weird bugs. Like, say, the North Pole. I've never been one for the creepy crawlies. The irony is, though I've never lived in the kind of place where bugs pretend to be rocks and leaves or have giant teeth and voices like Marlon Brando, I've been beset with infestations for as long as I can remember. Usually, it's all about the Ant. Carpenter, flying, big, small, biting, not biting... you name it. I once woke up to see a dish of lemon drops on my beside table (in a motel cottage, in Oregon) covered in a sheet of tiny black candyholics. I was dive bombed by swarms of flying beasties in my kitchen in Chilliwack. I watched them crawl over my cat in an apartment in Vancouver. I even sat on a nest of the red ones during a game of tackle football. And was separated from my jeans immediately thereafter. I can deal with ants. Even ants in my pants. But it doesn't end there. In my current apartment, we mostly have what I call "slinkies." Slinkies are the family of insects that move somewhat quickly and fluidly with a wave-like motion -- silverfish, earwigs, caterpillars, and the like. Slinkies are okay, except for the fact that I sometimes find them slinking onto my towel when I get out of the shower. And into my shoes when I am getting ready for work. Then there are the Armadillos: wood lice, beetles, and other bugs who look like they deserve to be roadkill on the side of a Texas highway. We have the occasional ladybug -- which I always place delicately on the hydrangeas out front -- and the occasional fly, too, but that's about it. Without getting into the arachnids, that is. These critters are normal guests in a building like ours, in a climate like ours. Who are we to complain? At least we don't have bugs the size of toddlers waiting under our beds for our legs to swing down and provide a snack in the morning. Squeamish though I may be about other bugs -- cockroaches, termites, bedbugs -- I can deal with our little guests. Or I could. Until now. Now we have pantry moths. And Indian meal moths. And who knows what other kind of moths. MOTHS. We saw them fluttering about, these tiny things, but ultimately took no real notice of them. After all, they're really little, easily caught if they're annoying you, and appear to be wearing Batik-print tunics. They're like tiny little hippies, chillin' on the wall here and there, doing their thing. If butterflies cause storms half a world away with the beating of their wings, these little flappers might give an old man the farts in Topeka. No big whoop. Then someone suggested our Batik moths might be pantry moths. Thus began the Great Bug Google of 2005, at which point we discovered that the moths were living in our flour. What? Dude, did I make moth muffins? Eccch. And not just the flour, but the corn meal, the baking powder, the bran, the freaking NUTMEG, for the love of Pete. It wasn't just the pantry moths, either. The indian meal ones were afoot (awing?), too, and we officially had an issue on our hands. Now -- if you see a group of animals, there are bound to be a group of young somewhere, too. People love baby animals. Heck, they start websites dedicated to them... like this one, which has led to much ooohing and ahhing and verklempt heart-clutching at my office. But see, moth young ain't so huggy-fuzzy. No, they're kinda wormy-squirmy. Larvae. White larvae with brown knobby heads. Spotted one at a time, scaling walls near the pantry, or -- just tonight, to my horror -- keepin' it real on the popcorn ceiling. When I hear the word "larvae", I think "LarVae" and then "LaVar" and then I think of Geordi LaForge on Star Trek. If only mothlets looked like a man with a banana clip over his eyes. They really just look EWWWWW. I saw my first one this morning as I went to make coffee in the kitchen. I flicked on the hall light, right next to the pantry, and there he was. After screaming "ohgoodlordisitwavingatmewhatisthat" in my head so as not to wake my roommates, I realized that things had become serious. Of course, if you have an infestation, there has to be a junior infestation. That's just how it works. But do they have to confront me in all their slimy infancy before I've even had a chance to fortify with caffeine? So, tomorrow night, we begin Operation Throw Stuff Out and Napalm the Cupboard. We're tossing all mothalicious dry goods to the four winds, and then soaping-bleaching-scrubbing down the shelves and walls. Any further goods will be tightly sealed in metal, glass, or hard, impervious plastic. I originally typed "imperious" there, and if that helps too, well, then, we'll get some imperious plastic and intimidate those hideous little creatures. We'll keep scrubbing it down, too. And we'll hang bunches of bay leaves, since moths hate them. Anything to prevent spending my morning java moment with something more fittingly left at the bottom of a bottle of tequila. Wish us luck. 12:17:16 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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