Here we are at that special time of year again when all of God’s creatures decide that after spending their entire lives outdoors they now want to live inside with us. It seems the critters vary year by year, and this year’s biggest offender appears to be, of all things, crickets and grasshoppers.
So it starts—Critter Warfare. Why so many? Why are they all here at once? In my search for answers, I, like any good American, googled the issue. Unfortunately there were no answers but plenty of “purchase my product” solutions.
So back to these crickets. I’ve always enjoyed listening to them at night and have actually found them to be quite comforting. In the house—not so much. They’re soooooo loud, coupled with the ability to land and cling, that the whole cricket thing is totally ruined for me.
Crickets are creepy. That’s my new conclusion, and I’m gonna tell ya why. Just the other day, after enjoying a delightful afternoon weeding the gardens, I came inside to wash my hands at the kitchen sink.
Sure enough one of those little so ‘n so’s jumped out of my hair (they’re quite agile, yet clunky at the same time) and landed on my soapy hand. Fight or flight—that was my split second dilemma. So I did what my mom would’ve done… garbage disposal.
That’s right, my first instinct was to kill—and kill I did. Flicked that baby right down the hole, flipped the switcheroo and ground him to bits.
I know, bug people, I know. One of God’s creatures, and I snuffed out his life. The Catholic guilt, forever lingering, took hold immediately, but I consoled myself with the fact that there was no torture involved that was of similar nature to the childhood act of pulling the legs—one by one—off Daddy Long Legs. (By the way, quite a few of THEM around this year too!)
So in my mind, if the death is quick and painless, it really didn’t happen at all. I poured a glass of vino and put the incident behind me.
Clearly, I was all alone in my dismissal. I settled into my fave back porch chair and admired my weeding results. Sip one…then thunk. Cricket lands directly in front of me. I flick him away. Sip two…thunk thunk. TWO crickets land in the same spot—flick, flick.
No killing involved, just get outta my face please.
Sip three… FOUR flippin’ crickets land at once. We are now officially at war, I can just feel it. Obviously one of them saw the disposal incident and they were here to let me know that no crime goes unpunished.
I vacate my spot. Ha ha ha you stupid crickets, I have a front porch too!!! Me and my wine relocate. But by the time I walked the 20 feet, lo and behold one of those little so ‘n so’s had landed directly in my glass. He’s doing the backstroke while sipping chardonnay.
I feel myself losing the battle, decide to head out to Lucky Dogs with supplies, and there, on the handle of my trailer, are FIVE CRICKETS. Soundless laughter for sure. Their ridiculous cricket faces are grinning all kinds of evil-like, and I have just guaranteed myself weeks of sleepless nights permeated with endless chirping and clunking.
I am in cricket hell, so here’s my advice: DO NOT KILL THEM. Their peeps are watching, and waiting, and ready to pounce. “Stick with the Flick” is my new motto. In these few remaining weeks of decent weather I will try to befriend them because clearly, these creepy crickets will take over the universe.
Where the heck is Spiderman when ya need him??
