I've come up with a new get-rich-quick scheme. I'm going to charge the grasshoppers, spiders, and ants rent! It's brilliant . . . I'd make a fortune!! We're talking, Oprah-rich!
One would think that after four months I'd start to be a little okay with all the creepy-crawlies. But, I'm still walking from room to room armed with a can of insecticide.
Apart from trying to suffocate them with can of bugs-be-gone, we're starting to come to a mutual understanding . . . I hate them and they scatter when they see me coming.
That is, until tonight.
I was standing at my kitchen counter, putting some recently washed dishes away in the cabinet, when all of a sudden I felt a slight 'thud' on the top of my head. The next sensation in between my locks was that of multiple tiny feet dancing a jig.
There comes a point in the panic-response where one loses all sense of rationality. I reached that point. Like two raging momma-bears, my hands ripped at my pony-tail, anxious to remove the six-legged BoJangles from my coif.
I felt my flailing hand knock something . . . but when I turned, expecting to find the stunned intruder on the floor, nothing.
That's when the irrationality started. I began to hop around from one foot to the next. I tore at my shirt on the off chance he had landed on my back. I sped to the mirror, where the only thing staring back at me was my now horrifying wife-of-Frankenstein hair.
I never found little twinkle-toes. But as I typed that last paragraph, a grasshopper jumped up my shorts. Needless to say, he has leapt his last leap.