Shall we talk terrorists for a moment?
I spent a good portion of last evening laundering up my bedding. It had been days since I had last seen a cricket, and I was hopeful that the exterminators had done a solid job. They said it might take a few days to be free and clear. So I was all ready to move back to my brandy-spanking new bed.
I washed the sheets, took the quilt to the laundromat. Had even bought sparkly new detergent and fluffy fabric softener sheets. Everything was clean, dry and folded. And as I brought the last of it down to my grotto to set up my Dream Palace, guess what I find - smack dab in the middle of my bed?
Yes. Square in the middle of the bed, its green-striped body a stark contrast to my virginal (ha!) let's say "white" mattress pad. The antennae twitched, its shoulders pulsing ever so slightly with each plotting breath (alright, so crickets don't HAVE shoulders - and they probably don't breathe either - but endulge me here, okay?).
The battle was fierce. In the end, there was just one victor: my slipper. Mine enemy was reduced to a gooey blob of legs, smeared across the bottom of my Eddie Bauer suede shearlings. And once again, I retreated north to the guest room, my sad pile of clean bedding a reminder of the looming fear.
We never know when they'll strike. We don't know where they come from, where they hide. And in the war against terror. is there ever clearly a winner?