That’s it. I’m done for the day. I’ve gone through enough tissues and held my breath more than I’m sure is healthy while sneaking up on at least half a dozen speedy little six-legged bastards only to hear another creepy crunch as I attempt to squish them before flushing them down the toilet. I say attempt because more than once has one of these nasty little bugs made a miraculous recovery and begun to swim for the side of the of the bowl as I push the lever.
Not only am I killing them, I’m torturing them in the process.
We have beetles. They’re primarily in our main bathroom and master bedroom, so they are either coming up through the drain, in through the portable air conditioner or in through the bathroom fan in efforts to escape the recent heatwave. Regardless of their entry, they can be seen making their way across the ceiling, around the door frames, scuttling up the side of the bathtub or sneaking behind the bedroom curtain. And the only thing worse than bugs is the thought of bugs in my bed when I’m trying to sleep.
I don’t like bugs. I don’t like killing bugs. I am actually fearful of flying bugs. In the past, I have been known to put glasses upside-down on all bugs and leave them for Mr.Q. However, there is now babyQ to consider. My mostly irrational
fear distaste for the multi-leggeds can be directly and indisputably traced to my mother who, growing up on the prairies, has a rather reasonable fear of similar critters after living through a few plagues of moths and grasshoppers as a little girl.
But I now must ask myself if this is a legacy worth continuing. And, for now, I’m going with “no”.
For now, though, our plague has been limited to little beetles. I make no guarantees when the moths come.