I have remarked in the past what a generally easy-going relationship I have with most bugs of the crawly variety. Even spiders, as they are both useful and beautiful, and as long as they stay out of my bed, they may remain unmolested in my house. There have been a couple of close calls, when I would gaze up at my ceiling, about to fall asleep, and see a spider directly above my face — clearly biding his time until I fall asleep to shimmy on down and lay eggs in my ear, but I just give it a stern talking-to, and as far as I know, there have been no incidents.
However, all bets are off when it comes to flying bugs. My number one nemesis is, of course, the June Bug — so large and stupid and loud and foul, I can only give humble thanks that it is a short-lived nuisance/terror. Stinging-flying things are no good either, but I can deal. Again, it’s a matter of “I respect your territory, you respect mine.”
But yesterday, things came to a head between me and bugs.
I had spent the morning periodically squashing wee baby crawlers in my bedroom, which apparently shares an alarmingly permeable membrane with the outside world. You would think there was a little bug-sized Open House sign, and all upwardly mobile insects were vying for a shot at the corner apartment with a terrace view. I stuck to my policy, though. I was working in my room, not looking for any trouble. But if a buggie crossed my desk, or shimmied up the wall behind my desk, or landed on my arm, I nixed ’em.
Then I made myself some lunch, and noticed one or two flies in the kitchen, and idly wished they’d go away.
After this delightful sandwich-related activity, I went out onto the screened-in porch. Good Lord, I gasped.
Somehow, our porch had been selected to host the Housefly National Convention — of which my two kitchen buddies were apparently the greeters — and boy was there a party goin’ on. Although I had done nothing to prepare for their arrival (set out clean towels, buy bagels and coffee, make up a list of local sights of interest), they were clearly enthusiastically pleased with the accommodations, pressing their filthy little noses up against the screens, taking in the spectacular view, and chatting happily with each other.
Feeling like a neglectful host, I naturally sprinted out to the grocery store for some supplies. Back home, I locked the cats up in the bedroom, strategically placed a few sheets of plastic to protect the valuables, and gave the room a healthy dose of, erm… air freshener. Then I ran like the dickens out the back door, around the house, and back in the front door (more exercise than I’ve had in quite some time).
After fifteen minutes, I looked out onto the porch, and saw that the convention had apparently come to an end. A few minutes spent with sponge, mop and broom, and we could all forget this had ever happened.
My territory, my rules.