Bugs in Maryland

The Good.

My first evening back in Maryland, I sat on my new home's front porch. The front lawn was Hobbiton green. Now that the sun had set, the temperature was pleasant, like a warm hug. A breeze tickled my toes and neck.

As I sat there reflecting on the adventures and challenges awaiting me, my eyes caught a twinkle in the grass. Then another, and another.

Fireflies!

I felt the grin pull at my face. I was watching a special welcoming dance just for me. Fireflies don't live in Seattle, at least not that I've seen. Rather, we have ants the size of...big ants.

Fireflies decorate those memories in which my childhood looks more like classic Huckleberry Finn and less like Lord of the Flies.

I remember evenings begging Mom for more time to stay outside as we tried to catch the critters and put them in mason jars. I would imagine creating a new home for them as my pets, only to feel guilty and release them every night. Trying to close my cupped hands so that they could not escape through the cracks in my fingers. Smelling my hands after they had flown, saying "ew," and wiping my hands on my shorts, only to go try and catch another one.

A special kind of emotion comes over me when I watch fireflies. I call it the goosebump feeling. An other-worldy recognition that this moment right here is special and cannot be kept. I wish that I could keep those moments locked away, the key close to my heart. That way, if I ever have a bad day, I can just open up my box of goosebumps and breathe in joy, serenity, warmth.

Instead, I have to take a deep breath, and go get ready for bed because there are things to be done and schedules to keep.

Welcome to Maryland. : )

The Bad.

The same green lawn is not nearly as hospitable during the day. The heat comes down so thick that I often feel as if I could grab hold of it and tie it into a knot.

My very pregnant sister was attempted to do yoga. Her very precocious toddler was attempting to knock her over. She asked me to take him outside.

Playing with my nephew is primarily pointing at objects an yelling their name in the most excited manner possible, with an obnoxious upward inflection. A ball is not just a sphere, it's a "BALL!! BALL! See the ball, baby?! Do you see the ball?! Look at the BALL! Look how ROUND and RED it is! Wanna play with the BALLLL??"

We were examining his toys, the plants, the bunny, the sidewalk, etc. Ever since he was an infant he has been able to point at things; this day he pointed at my leg.

Nephew: (pointing) dadblaggahalha
Me: What is it? Watcha pointin' at?

I looked down. A freakishly large mosquito was on my leg.

Me: OOOohhhhohoohholymotherofgodddd

My nephew had rescued me from one mini predator, but evidence soon shown that I had been ravaged in the yard that afternoon. Bug bites, red and swollen dotted my legs.

My very own welcoming love nips.

The Ugly.

My bedroom is in the basement this summer. This has many advantages. It's cool, I have my own entrance,and-- most importantly-- the residents upstairs cannot hear me scream. (Maybe I should feel more concerned about that?)

I got home late from school/work/whatever. Exhausted, I yawned repeatedly and shuffled my feet as I got ready for bed. I sat down on the toilet to pee, my glazed eyes staring ahead into nothing. Suddenly, something flashed in the corner of my eye.

I jerked my head.

There, on the white porcelain of the bathtub, was a demon bug.

I believe that the technical term for them is "centipede," but these spawn of Satan have always been known as demon bug to me. 

They haunted my childhood. They would sneak up behind me, run across the carpet, always trying, desperately trying to steal my soul and eat me alive.

I was stuck on my throne mid-piss, so my initial reaction to leap up was repressed. Instead, I let out a ripped-up shriek of "OOHHhhhOhhhhMYfuckingGAWDddddd!!!!"

The demon bug was skitting up the sides of the tub trying to get out. Its legs seemed to multiply before my very eyes. It would get so close to the edge of the tub before sliding back down into its porcelain prison. 

I ran out of the bathroom with staccato "ah! oh! Uh! Oh! Ughh!"'s. I needed to catch my breath, calm down, figure this situation out. I can do this. I am an adult. I can legally drink. I can drive a truck, navigate an airport, answer business emails, look awesome in a pencil skirt.

My heart is frantically beating, screaming in terror at me. I force myself to reenter the bathroom. I cautiously peer over the edge of the tub. My eyes bulge. My nemesis is still skittering in the basin, trying to gain enough momentum to get over the edge. I  reach for my weapon of choice: a wad of toilet paper.

Now here's the tricky part: if I try to squish him with my toilet paper wad, I may not be fast enough. He could potentially slip out and then run up my arm and suck my eyeballs out of their sockets or something. I need to be quick.

With a manic "ARRRGHHH" I slap my hand over him. I get him...sort of.

I have hurt him, but not disabled him. He continues to move, the toilet paper wad clinging to him like some demented turtle shell, his evil legs sticking out. Why won't he die?!?! I grab more toilet paper.

I screw my courage to the sticking point--I can do this-- and once more let out a female-tennis-player-grunt as I crush him once more. The deed is done.

I stand over the tub, my body shaking, my lungs panting. The adrenaline does not know what to do with itself anymore. My hand hurts--my final stroke of death ended up not as a slap, but as a fist. I had basically punched the bottom of the tub in order to kill a bug. Instead of feel some appropriate shame or embarrassment with this reaction, I instead swell up with pride. I flush the carcass down the toilet, wash my hands and go to bed a victor.

Welcome to Maryland, mwahahahaha.