The "C" Word

Y'all, I generally don't mind bugs. Insects, specifically, but I tolerate spiders, too. They fill a niche in the world, they have a purpose. They're a part of the circle of life (I keep reminding myself, we won't have dragonflies if they don't have mosquitoes to eat.) Live & let live, sort of. If they're outside, they're where they belong. If they're inside, they're fair game for the hunt; Scott is all about slaying them, while I prefer catch-and-release. We even have tools that make us good at what we do: he has an electric bug racquet for wasps and other large creepies and I have have the bug jars from my kids. Either way, we keep the house occupants bipedal.

But there is one bug I loath. Of the myriad scavengers, those unattractive crawlies that consume our garbage & compost, there is one I will not abide. Do we not have pill bugs, millipedes, centipedes and crickets a plenty? (All I care not much for.)

Why do we need-- shudder-- cockroaches?
(There, I've said it. Sorry, Tanja.)

I've never liked them. They are creepy and gross. Sneaky, too, nor a respecter of personal space. I don't care if they are capable of surviving a nuclear Armageddon. So will kudzu and Twinkies, big deal. I find no point for the "c-word."

There was a bug under the bookshelf in my sixth grade classroom. I thought it was a cricket, and tried to help catch it. When it scuttled out and proved to be the-other-thing, I think my scream gave the PE coach a heart attack, and he was on the other side of the pod. Years later, one had the audacity to scuttle across the floor while I was baby sitting; I sprayed it with window cleaner, then with the bug spray (I was watching out for the kids,) finally resorting to smashing it with my shoe-- the demon insect kept crawling with its guts hanging out. Arrrgh!!!!!! Now, as a high-demand sitter, I'd handled many crises quite calmly. I resorted to calling my brother over to handle the final dispatch.

I cannot stand them.

So where did I go to college? Auburn University. Home of cockroaches so big & so aggressive that students from Louisiana and Florida were impressed. Not only that, those suckers flew.  Technically, they are "Palmetto Bugs." We don't HAVE palmetto in the area, so I blame some ag student in the past for accidentally importing it. I don't care. I just want them GONE. They eat everything. Plastic wire insulation is a fav dessert of theirs. Horror is waking up late for class because your alarm clock doesn't work and you can see the body of the culprit trapped against the lurid glow of the digital display. Just not right.

At Auburn, I learned: if you are alone in a room, it is useless to scream at one. That only gives it advanced warning. It'll fly right at you and laugh at your vain attempts to swat at it with a broom. (Wish that poster could have laughed about it... sorry.) I'll go on a stealth offensive, if there's no other recourse. My preferred method of destruction is to scream loudly as I jump up on some furniture; I can usually summon someone else within a 30 foot radius to do the deed.

My brother recommends a can of Raid. And a match. (No, he refrained from that during the baby-sitting rescue. But his method has a vengeful appeal.)

So there. Something I dislike, loath, abhor, despise, detest and just out-right can't stand-- nay, just plain hate.

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A whimsical note, I took a walk at the Botanical Gardens on Friday. The day had warmed up delightfully. Staying indoors would have been a sin. All sorts of six-legged things were buoying about, especially pairs of butterflies in their last hopeful, enamored dances.

As I approached the gazebo, I could see quite a few things buzzing about a trellis. Bigger than gnats, smaller than wasps. Thinking they might be honey bees out for a final hurrah, I tried to focus on one, only to realize they were flying polka-dots glowing red. Ladybugs! Oodles! They'd been lured out of their hibernation. With so many, it was easy to have one alight on my hand. Not so easy to take a picture of it as it scurried along. Even less easy when it became three, eight, twenty conveniently landing on me. Left arm, right arm, shirt, pants. I watched one hang from my bangs. Maybe there were too many ladybugs. The ticklish legs weren't a problem, but one of them wondered if my arm tasted like aphid.... party over. Shoo, shoo! (I got odd looks from others in the glen.)

I was almost out of the garden when I felt something at my shoulder. A straggler. It perched a moment on my sweater.

Shoo to you, too.