RAID.

There is a cricket somewhere in our house.  I’m either going to find it and kill it, or sell the place and move.

I’ve been trying to catch it for the last two evenings.  Every ten minutes I pick up my murder weapon (crumpled Kleenex) and tiptoe through the living room.  But as soon as I get to the basement steps, it stops.  Sometimes I wait at the top.  It might let out one more “crick”, but as soon as I turn on the basement light, it’s gone again.  How can such a small bug be so loud?  And so fast?

Tomorrow, I’m buying Raid.

This is another one of those things I said I’d never do.  Right up there with telling a toddler “Because” when he asks “Why”.   Or wiping someone’s hair with spit on a Kleenex.

When I was a teenager, I had a basement bedroom.   When I went down to go to bed in the summer, the whole basement would reek of Raid.  I’d accuse my mother of trying to gas me in my sleep.  She would deny wanting to hurt me, tell me the crickets were driving her crazy, and then say “It’s not that dangerous.  Don’t worry about it.”  Finally, more than twenty years later, I understand. 

Turns out my husband’s mother did the same thing.  One of his most powerful memories of camping is the post-Raid smell of the trailer, just before he and his brother fell asleep at night. 

So, tomorrow I’m buying Raid.  I’m sure it’s not that dangerous.  At least the noise will stop.

My only worry now is, what will I be doing next?

Comments

[Maureen]

Isn't it scary how we start to develop our parents' traits, even when we vowed we wouldn't?

Also, I think getting your hair wiped with spit on a Kleenex is pretty classy. Mine got wiped with spit on a hand.

[Melanie]

This made me laugh in rueful recognition. There is a cricket chirping away outside our bedroom window EVERY night and I'm going to hunt that &^#*% thing down! Even though I am really a peace loving vegetarian.