Before moving out to the country, Jayson gave me a warning.
“Silva,” he said, “there are bugs. Big bugs. You can’t freak out. It’s just how it is.”
I’m happy to report that I haven’t freaked out. (Too much, anyway.) Well, there was one incident with a grasshopper, a toy butterfly net, and sweating elbows, but that’s another story. For the most part, I’ve managed well, making Jayson kill any creepy crawlers I see (and killing them myself if he’s not around). And I won’t just take his word for it that they're dead – I have to see the carcass.
We’ve got spiders – some as big as the palm of my hand.
Stinkbugs. They’re huge and alien-looking and ugly.
Wasps. Don’t make them mad.
Red ants. They bite.
Black wormy caterpillary things. I’ve killed at least 30 of these in our house in the past week.
Roly-poly things. (I don’t know all the official names.)
Mosquito eaters. They’re big, but we like them.
Add to this assortment the following:
It’s a nasty menagerie. And Jayson wonders why I stay indoors most of the time.
Recently I was informed that we would be adding a sheep to the mix in the near future. “To get rid of our weeds, honey.” So practical, isn’t he?
In college, my friends and I would joke about the type of guy we’d marry. My basic requirements were that he must have a firm grasp of the English language and two distinct eyebrows. We would laugh on and on about dowries and being set up with sheep herders. Now I guess the joke’s on me.
OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.