“Hurt no living thing: Ladybird, nor butterfly, Nor moth with dusty wing”
- Christina Georgina Rossetti
Sorry, Christina ... but I am ignoring that quote. It’s 3am on Saturday morning. I thought I’d be asleep, dreaming about martini’s ... beaches... or who knows what. Instead, I’m sitting up in bed after murdering a centipede. Those of you who know me know I am not a bug girl. I don’t like camping. I don’t like bees, roaches, ants and have a horrifying fear of spiders. I know they have just as much right to be here as you and I. However, can they please stay outside!
When I moved to New York I realized that I would have to make some adjustments to my lifestyle. I knew bugs, like cockroaches, are a fact of life living in New York. I haven’t run into them yet (knock on wood). However, over the past few weeks ants and centipedes have decided to make my home their home. I didn’t invite them so I think it’s just rude! I think I’ve handled the uninvited pests pretty well. So what if I call my mom and have her listen to me scream as I drown a nasty centipede or kill a spider! So what if I use three tissues to pick up a dead roly-poly! I think I’ve been pretty good! I’ve even named the light-colored spider in the basement “Charlotte” (though I think I may have sprayed her to death last week as a preventative measure). I can handle the tiny bugs ... the tiny centipedes. I can’t handle the big ones. I mean they freak me out! I mean the one in the basement I drowned last week was just blechy!
I digress. To make a very long story short: I couldn’t sleep. I woke up around 2am to go watch some tv. I flip on the lights and nearly step on a scurrying, BIG, centipede. As the quick moving critter scurried over my freshly cleaned wood floor ... I grabbed my weapon (drum roll) ... my ant/roach spray. I randomly spray under the dresser as that’s where I saw it run. I don’t see anything though and think, “Okay. Jess. You won’t sleep if you don’t kill it.” At that moment I see something under my neatly rolled up pilates mat and take action and spray the crap out of it. The critter jumps onto my weights and under the dresser as I continually spray it (and half my stuff with it). Right now I can hear my dad worrying about my furniture and asking ‘is the spray ruining it?’ To answer your question, “Dad, I cleaned the furniture.”
In the end the centipede is dead. So I’m sorry Christina Georgina Rossetti. I have hurt a living thing ... but it wasn’t a Ladybird, nor butterfly, Nor moth with dusty wing.” I hope now I can get some sleep. Please centipede... don’t haunt in my dream. And I am sorry I had to kill you, but I didn’t invite you into my home.
PS One of my favorite children's books is "A Cricket In Times Square." I highly recommend it and have a copy of it in my apartment.
