Here we go again. (Please note: this has nothing to do with the people who say you need to learn to eat insects to save the planet. It has no relation to cuisine whatever. )
What it is, is that after dog years — or at least my years, because we shopped there when I was four — the grocery at the bottom of the hill has been pulled down to make way for an ever so adorable urban village center thingamajig. I think that is supposed to be progress. It has me and the Engineer lunging around the domestic hearth seizing whatever weapon comes to hand, like a laundry basket or a one-and-a-half-liter jug of Malbec, to slaughter giant diasporetic motherfucking waterbugs that totter out of the bathrooms and come to the attention of the cats, who are our lookouts. Jesus Christ on a ten-speed racing bicycle.
This happened one other time, shortly after we had The Skip out on the street; that involved an address two lots down, where a longtime serious hoarder had turned up her toes and in due time the family sold to a house-flipper who ripped the place out to the studs. Gross insects fled through the municipal water pipes, emerging into my kitchen sink in the dark of night to be rinsed down, come morning, into the garbage Dispos-all with a vengeful roar on several days each week. I bought death-dealing thingummies to salt under the stove and pantry shelves, or roughly anywhere cats could not find them. Eventually the bastards stopped. I stored the remaining baits in the linen cupboard.
This time, the access points are less obvious. They are coming in through the cellar, mainly, one or three a week, and dear God, apparently fancying the dryer. Twice now I have extracted a load of sheets from the dryer only to find a very dead, very baked bug at the bottom of the rotating drum. Die, you chitinous fucker.
Getting tired of running sheets through the wash twice.
I drove by the Food Star today — in its last incarnation, the grocery was known for boffo fresh local vegetables, but smelled so strongly of something like dirty diapers that I would sooner graze off my lawn than go in there — and the whole lot was leveled and nothing could be seen but Virginia red dirt. The County warned of rats fleeing the demolition, as they did of the neighboring military base back in the day. I can easily imagine that in its time, the business entertained a sub rosa population of arthropods whose numbers I don’t care to imagine. Maybe the bugs will taper off now that the wrecking balls are done.
I will bake, macerate, and bait them into extinction, so help me God. Die. Die. Die. Die.