Monday, August 30, 2010

Rubber Duckie, You're the One!

Baby animals are cute. Even the least dog-friendly person has a hard time resisting the innocent, brown-eyed stare from a fluffy-faced golden retriever pup, right? And, although I myself am allergic to cats, I can't help but cuddle and tease my friends' six-week-old kitty Leo. Can't say no to that bitty face!

Baby insects, however, are not cute. Baby spiders, baby flies, and - you guessed it - baby centipedes are not at all cute. They still have the same buzzing wings or creepy legs that I despise in the adult versions, so they don't win any points in my book.

Why have I returned to my centi-rant, you wonder? Well, about a month or so ago, my Dad's best friend Lee began (much-needed!) work on our bathroom. Ross had been toying with the idea for years, but when parts of the wall began to, quite literally, fall into the tub as I showered, it was time to move to action. We picked out a new tub and tile, and Lee and Ross discussed how feasible parts of the project would be. It could be done in a few weeks! At least, phase one could be. The remainder of the project - painting, new shelves and a new vanity - would have to wait until probably next year. "That's fine," I exclaimed. Until I realized that, during the renovation, I would have to shower downstairs.

For those of you who have visited the house, you know that there are a lot of cool things here. There is beautiful woodwork, a spacious dining room, several decent-sized bedrooms...and a freaky, bug-filled cellar. Maybe my animosity goes all the way back to my childhood, when the house in which I grew up also had a scary, downstairs shower. In the case of that house, it was right near the basement door. Bugs flew in all the time. Wasps had created an evil, haunting nest right outside, on the deck, and they flew in the the house as though it was their right. I took showers down there when I had to, but never at night, and never for more time than was absolutely necessary.

However, Ross and I, I have to admit, made pretty light work of the temporary shower. He has, naturally, a Pittsburgh Potty in the basement, concealed only by a cheap blue shower curtain. We simply added a few more curtains to turn that corner of the room into a mini-bathroom, complete with a few hooks for hanging soap and bath sponges - and the garden hose that was to be the shower head. At least it offered several delightful settings: 'trickle', 'trickle left', 'trickle right', 'leak awkwardly', 'douse', and 'assault'.

In all honestly, once I got back into the college-born habit of wearing my flip-flops into the shower, things weren't so bad. Well, maybe not in the shower itself. Unfortunately, Lee's hard work must have upset the centipede population that had gone into summer dormancy in the pipes. Since the weather had grown very hot, we hadn't seen them for some time. Other bugs, sure (spiders in particular love the office on the second floor), but centipedes only thrive in most, temperate conditions. We must have rattled them. Because they were back, in full force.

With their babies.

The first one I saw was in the kitchen, and I was startled, but more frustrated than anything else. I knew he was a herald, sent by the evil Centipede Queen to let me know that more were coming. Ross killed him with a shoe, hoping to send a message back to their Underground Kingdom.

The next one I saw was in the upstairs bathroom. Lee's fussing with the pipes had made the bug bold. But, as he was only a juvenile bug, I had to show him a lesson in pride. I removed my flip-flip and smeared him against the wall. I chose not to remove his remains. Again - I had to send a message. Also, it was gross.

The remaining bugs must have heard our message clearly, because, after that, they stayed down in the basement. As they grew more cautious, I grew more evil. Instead of being startled, afraid or angry when I saw one - even a little one - I paused, stayed perfectly still, and silently considered every possible way of destroying it. Should I use the traditional but effective Shoe-Smack? Guts on the floor? Perhaps a can of hairspray to crisp up the legs before Ross's grill lighter takes over? Char-i-pedes. Maybe drowning in the laundry tubs? My friend, you may have 30 legs but I doubt you can swim.

I pretty much stuck with the shoe, though.

After long, hard days of battle, I do admit it was pretty nice to be able crawl, war-weary, into the bathtub, complete with its Rubber Duckie curtain and bath mat, dump in half a bottle of bubble bath, and soak until even my toes pruned up.

It was my first bath since I married Ross, and it was darn well time for it.





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