Jackie Wells-Fauth
I received a video from my almost four-year-old grandson this week in which he very proudly told me he had bugs for lunch, and they were “yummy” and “tasty”. Before my stomach heaved too much, he went on to say they were “ants on a rog” (he’s still having trouble with his “l” sounds).
By the end of the video, he had requested that his mother make “ants on a rog” at home and she agreed. I should have known that it wasn’t a real bug he ate, because he is so very careful with bugs. He doesn’t want flies, ants, ticks, etc., to be around him in the house, but at the same time he doesn’t want them to be harmed. He actually expects that they will be caught and removed safely to the out of doors.
This is where he and I differ. When I see a bug, my first instinct is not to eat it or return it to the wild. I just want to viciously stomp it and if it could die without leaving messy remains, that would be even better!
I’m sure I don’t need to tell anyone that bug season is here. However, I do believe that my house is the gathering place for more than my fair share of the population. I have about 20 flyswatters loaded and ready for action, but of course, when I’m sitting down trying to read or watch television, and the flies and mosquitoes are buzzing or the spiders are climbing down the walls, I never have a weapon handy!
The other day, I was driving down the road when suddenly, a fly managed to drop between my eye and my glasses. If a policeman had been watching me drive, I would have been stopped for a sobriety test. By the time I got the car under control and stopped and the fly out from behind my glasses, I was a little angry.
I spent five minutes with the windows open trying to get the fly to simply leave the premises. The fly had other ideas. He kept flying into places I couldn’t get him out of and there was nothing in my purse that served as a proper fly killer. In addition, while we were having this battle, reinforcements showed up for him in the shape of three more flies.
In desperation and rage, I got in the car and rolled up the windows. I told the flies, “Whatever happens now, is on you.” They were unmoved and simply stared at me from their stronghold on the dashboard.
I stopped at the nearest gas station and when I got out of the car, they invited another fly in. I stomped into the gas station, bought the largest fly swatter they had, stomped back out to the car and declared to the flies, “It’s on now, boys. Come and get me!”
There followed a scene of great carnage. I murdered all the flies, and I may have desecrated the dead by smacking them several times more after they were dead. I vented all my fury on them, scraped up the remains with the fly swatter and scattered their ashes in the gas station parking lot. Perhaps it will serve as a warning to all other bugs not to mess with me.
I have been feeling pretty tough since then. I march around my house with my six-swatters, yelling, “tar agus faigh dom” (“come and get me” sounds so much tougher in Gaelic and besides, what do the bugs know? So far as I know, they can’t speak any language!).
Last night, I sat down in my chair after a routine reconnaissance through the house. Not a fly, spider, water bug or even an “ant on a rog” in sight. Things were great. Just as I picked up my book, a fly flew between my eye and my glasses. I think it might have been a relative of the guy that was in my car because he was sure after revenge and by the time I got him out, I had bent my glasses, and poked myself in the eye three times.
I wonder how you say, “I give up” in Gaelic?
dropsinthewell 