I am not an easily alarmed or grossed out woman. As I kid, I was the first person to begin dissections during biology. I thought it was endlessly fascinating, never mind the unholy smell. I’ve been in charge of the tail of a wounded horse, and that involved yards of vet wrap and maggot removal. It was not pretty, and it was not something I relished doing. But it needed to be done. That’s me: I do what needs doing.
But here’s the thing: I hate crickets. I hate that they hop so much. I hate that stupid chirping noise they make. I hate the fact that they are EVERYWHERE this year. It is a cricket-plague, and I do not approve. Yesterday, I encountered what must be a mutant strain of cricket. It didn’t look like your average cricket. It was three times its normal size and semi-spider like. It also seemed to have developed some sort of chameleon camouflage, because I didn’t SEE the bloody thing until I was nearly upon it.
And you know what happened then? The freakin’ thing sent out a distress signal of some sort, and a small horde of evil, Bond villain-like crickets POURED out from nowhere. There I was, attempting to feed the horse, and I was besieged. BESIEGED. They might as well have had pitchforks and torches – and been shouting RUTABAGA! (Fun fact: often times, in silent movies with mobs, they were all screaming rutabaga, because of the way it carried onto the screen.)
So, there is a small possibility that I shrieked like the girl that I am, because one leapt off of a shelf and I SWEAR it was cackling with glee. Of course, I did what any normal person would do: grabbed a broom and started chasing the little buggers around, yelling at them.
…it wasn’t until they were gone that I wondered if the neighbors were home, and perhaps out in their yard. And perhaps laughing at me. I did not stick around to find out. It was cold, and cricket humiliation does not keep a person warm.
I headed inside, and then down in the basement, to do the laundry. That sounds simple, right? Innocuous. An easy chore. WRONG.
I marched down the stairs without incident. I only made it halfway to the washing machine before the chirping assault. Next thing I knew, a small velociraptor-like horde of hunting, mad, possibly frothing crickets surrounded me. There I was, clutching towels, unable to defend myself. I had no free hand. I was broom-less. Although it wasn’t a perfect weapon, it WAS a weapon.
So, I did the only thing I could: yelled nonsense at the damn critters and threw the laundry bag on the floor as loud as I could.
You know what happened then, right? IT MADE THEM ANGRY. There was an increase in the height and frequency of the hopping. They called for reinforcements, and none of my stomping and shrieking did anything but whip them into a homicidal, flesh-eating frenzy. It took me longer than it should’ve to dodge past the evil bastards and put up the laundry.
Which, of course, means one thing and one thing only. This is totally a valid reason to never do laundry again. *wink*
(No crickets were harmed in the making of this traumatic experience. Only my dignity and pride were slightly bruised.)