I hate bugs. HATE them. I understand they maintain the ecosystem and have a purpose, but their purpose needs to be served outside of my house and yard. My husband was the bug warrior. I’d find some sort of creepy crawly and pitifully call out to him to serve as my bug hit man because despite my deep seeded hatred, I hate killing anything, especially if its death is only happening to secure my own comfort. He had no such qualms and would eagerly pursue and execute anything foolish enough to scurry across my path and receive the finger point that marked it to meet an early demise. I miss my enforcer.
Recently, new homes have started to be constructed in my area, which has kicked up all sorts of intruders into my no bug zone. A few nights ago, I spotted my greatest nemesis crawling near my patio door- a scorpion. There were very few creepy crawlies that my husband could not handle, but scorpions were one of them. I found a dead one in the house a few months ago and his response was “Well, it was a good run but I think it is time we burn the house down!” So seeing this scorpion trying to get into the house and knowing even my mostly fearless bug warrior would find the situation daunting made it about near impossible for me to even consider handling, but this was unacceptable so I pulled on my big girl panties and searched for the bug spray. I came up empty handed. I still have no idea where the spray is. The only thing I could locate to spray was orange scented Pledge so I doused it until it was a scrambling pile of white foam. It ran off into night so I will never know if my Pledge attack was successful, but if it wasn’t that scorpion is the shiniest, sweetest smelling scorpion on the planet!
The next morning, since the scorpion incident was not traumatizing enough, there was a dead wolf spider in front of my fridge. I briefly considered and dismissed the idea of picking the ugly thing up with a paper towel. I went over various options in my head for what to do with it and ultimately decided on a broom and dust pan. I flicked it with the broom into the dustpan much more deftly than I would have thought I could manage, but then saw the flaw in my plan. I was going to have to pick up that dust pan and carry it outside. I stared at it for a while, trying to identify if it was just really good at playing possum and would pick the moment I picked up the dust pan to spring to life and charge toward my hand. After five minutes, I felt reasonably sure it was no longer alive so I tentatively picked up the dust pan, sprinted to the door, and flung it into the gravel. Mission accomplished.
Despite my unorthodox methods, it did actually feel like an accomplishment to handle these small problems myself. I can do this, I just have to go about it all in my own unique way.