Today after work I plop my
fat ass into a plastic chair and enjoy my nearly-worm-poop-free patio. Even though it’s hot out, it’s a dry heat
(yes, it really does make a huge difference) with a decent breeze. I decide to avoid the sun for various
reasons, one being I’m too damn lazy to change out of my work clothes.
I set up my space on the
patio and enjoy doing a few puzzles and taking in the relative peace and quiet
for such a compact neighborhood. I live
in the urban part of suburbia, where I am surrounded by about 100 of my not-so-closest
friends: close enough to walk to town and spit on the railroad tracks, and also
close enough to be packed in tighter than people waiting for Filene’s doors to
open at the Running of the Brides sale.
I am minding my own
business when worm poop falls from the sky and bounces off my Sudoku page. (In case you’re wondering, inch-worm poop is
like miniature missiles of concrete excrement.)
I look up, gauge how far I
need to reposition myself to avoid overhead branches, then drag my chair
sideways. Ah, yes. Nothing better than a pre-summer, worm-poop-free
afternoon! All is right with the
world.
I do some puzzles, play
some games on my cell phone, check Facebook, check email, and take a
mini-nap. I figure I should probably
head in at some point before the mosquitoes start their Kamikazee blood-lust,
so I plop my feet down and see …
Ants everywhere. Poor bastards, trying to find more worm poop
to take home for the family dinner.
Sorry, ants, but the worm poop is almost over. Buffet lunches are over! I decide to lift my flip-flop-covered toes
just a few inches off the ground. If an
ant crawls into my path, I drop the flip-flop and squish. If it scuttles nearby but not quite close
enough, I whisper, “Oh, it’s your lucky day.”
All of a sudden a big-ass,
creepy, fuzzy spider comes at me from the left making a sneak assault. It’s one of those jumping spiders – you know,
here one second, hopping about eight inches away the next second. Without thinking twice, I lower the boom of
my right flip-flop, creating a crunching, squishy splat sound beneath.
I borrow a line from an
old short story that means very little in this situation, but I’m on meds at
the moment, so very little makes sense, anyway.
I look at the guts-spewing mini-ball of furry arachnid and say, “You’re
too late, sir. The admiral is dead.”
Then I encourage the
ants. “Fellas, I got you dinner. It’s a feast!
Come on, dudes. Dinner bell. Dinner bell!”
They don’t listen.
I stand up to go inside
and see a worm crawling on the first chair in which I was sitting. Had I not moved, it would’ve landed in my
hair, or, worse, onto my face while I napped.
I try to take its picture, but it loses its grip and falls to the
pavement, creating blurring resolution in the frame.
I decide I’ve caused
enough global hysteria in the local insect world for one sitting. I gather my belongings and trek back inside,
satisfied with the knowledge that since the carpenter bees are gone for the
season, I truly am the baddest bitch on this relatively worm-poop-free patio.
