Ahh…spring. Blue skies, the sounds of birds chirping, coming up with excuses to stay outside and watch the neighbor’s hot lawn guy cut grass.
It’s the time of year when I work on my garden/horticultural hospice, when shouting “I need a studfinder!” and “Where my hose at?” while walking into Home Depot can be justified somehow.
Yes, spring has arrived.
The OCD in me takes immense pleasure in dead-heading petunias, picking green beans and pulling out weeds (in both my yard and any other surface that makes me feel twitchy—it’s actually really a curse.)
But the real curse of warm weather—other than blinding a chipmunk with the whiteness of my legs—is the bugs. Oh yes, those tiny little monsters that are bound and determined to make me itchy and bitchy and other adjectives that sound like rejected names for the Seven Dwarfs.
Although I know they serve a purpose, bugs suck—both literally and figuratively. Aside from flying up my nose or sneaking into my mouth, they suck the fun out of outdoor situations by sucking the blood out of my soul, leaving me with un-itchable itchy bumps as a reminder of their intrusive visits to my flesh and to my fun.
I use sprays, creams, zappers and Tiki torches with citronella oil in an effort to ward off their presence, yet I still find myself cursing the little a-holes as I scratch and claw at my bites.
These bugs have balls.
They have no fear.
They laugh at me as I wave my arms around like a crazy person and run around the yard with a 75-cent plastic fly swatter that’s about as effective as hitting a softball with a wet noodle.
Now I get it that when I’m outside I’m on their turf, kind of like how I don’t blame sharks for attacking swimmers. If I saw some guy in my territory wearing a Speedo I would probably get pissed off, too. Don’t blame Jaws.
But unlike almost all other creatures, bugs a) have no regard for personal space and b) don’t seem to understand the concept of private property and think it’s okay to enter an indoor environment uninvited.
The little winged weirdos just waltz on in with their buzzy tune, intent on destroying happiness and beinghectic in the corner of the ceiling or around my head.
When they actually enter my house uninvited—without even bringing a nice fruit basket or maybe some hummus—I will go to the ends of the earth and my couch to make sure they don’t stay for long. Magazines, dish towels, napkins—I’m like the MacGyver of finding something to “remedy” the situation.
Inside or out, I refuse to let them win.
I might not have balls and I might have irrational fears of weird things like sneezing while driving or developing an allergy to asparagus, but I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing—lighting torches and swatting at the little bastards, all the while reeking of DEET and frustration.
You have been warned, my flying foes, you have been warned.
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