A bug's life

I have become a demanding landlord and have evicted countless bugs from my temporary apartment in the woods this week.

Why not squash them instead of going through all the trouble of evicting them? That's a good question. And I can only say that I have a near Buddhist attitude toward bug life and will not kill them (including flies) unless my life is on the line or for some other nearly-that-extreme reason.

Thus, I've evicted about 10 large black ants, 3 fireflies, and 5 granddaddy longlegs, not to mention the many other unidentifiable bug-creatures I also have captured in my trusty glass jar now deployed solely for purposes of bug eviction. Oh, and I disposed of a drowned June bug in my kitchen sink, as well.

If there's one thing I can't stand is bugs, especially the flying kind. And it's not just a matter of being persnickety or "girlish" in the sexist connotation of that word. I have a real phobia of flying insects to the extent that my husband fears I'll meet an unexpected end if a flying bug ever gets inside my car. That possibility loomed before us last weekend when, as I was driving home from the bug-ridden woods here, I saw a bee buzzing happily in the car. I called my husband, basically whimpering, and he instructed me firmly to ignore it. Bless him and his utter confidence in my ability to act sanely.

I knew better, however, and proceeded to stop the car in front of the nearest house I could find. I quickly opened my door, ran to the back to open my hatchback, and ran as far as I could in the opposite direction until I saw the trespassing bee fly off into its new quarters, likely wondering how she'd gotten to this new and unfamiliar neighborhood. Then I quickly ran back, got in and sped away, leaving an old man sitting in front of his house quite mystified as to what he had just witnessed.

My phobia of flying insects, especially of the completely innocuous moths, is the moral to a tale about not listening to your mother. When I was a young girl -- my mami says I was about 11 -- I insisted on watching this horror film about a man who collected moths. His wife had him killed because she was having an affair (or some such thing), and he came back as a moth and killed her (or some such thing). Before the movie's expected denouement, my mami cautioned me against seeing the movie, saying it might scare me. I scoffed at fear, finished the movie, and scarred myself for life by developing a phobia of moths that quickly developed into an uncontrollable fear of anything that flies that's not feathered.

There appears to be some genetic basis for this phobia, however. My mami tells me that when she was my papi's novia they were riding in a friend's car when a large cucaracha lumbered out of somewhere and my mom opened the door of the moving car to get out so she could avoid the bug. The driver almost crashed and my mom says it earned her stern reproof from everyone in the car since she'd almost committed suicide and manslaughter, all because of a roach. Still, I totally empathize. Have you ever seen a Puerto Rican cucaracha? They're as big as alligators!

Dr. S the other day remarked that it was funny I would shriek at bugs because I'm, otherwise, such a strong and level-headed person. Oh, well. We all have our weaknesses, don't we? And some are indeed sillier than others.

But, let me tell you, I'm getting rather tired of this constant bug eviction process and will look forward to the rapidly approaching day when I return to my city home. In the city, the insects are well aware of their boundaries and, like good citadinos, they stay outside, where they belong.