It’s sucky enough when summer ends. But here’s what’s suckier…
When the one really hateful thing about summer (besides sweat and showing my feet) sticks around:
I mean, WTF?
Why, when it’s 50 degrees out, are there mosquitoes in our apartment?
Maybe they’ve decided to hibernate indoors this year, and that’s precisely why they’re in our apartment.
The mosquitoes, whom we call “the dickheads,” live in my closet by day. Whenever I open the closet door, one flies out from between my sweaters. Talk about intrusive. Do you like it when someone peeks in your closet? If not, you’d really hate it if they moved in.
Why do they like it in there? Three possibilities come to mind:
- Moths tipped them off that wool is a delicious.
- There’s a swamp in the back of the closet.
- There’s a magic door to a swamp. It’s Narnia for mosquitoes.
There’s more than one dickhead.
I know this because sometimes I find one or two dead in our bed. And also, they wreak way too much havoc to be one guy working alone.
I’d like to know which one is in charge of scheduling. The dickheads wake me and Steven up at exactly 4:45 am every morning.
They’re consistent, I’ll give them that.
They’re never leaving.
I keep thinking, hmm – haven’t seen them all day. Maybe they’re gone. Maybe tonight’s the night I don’t have to wear bitter-smelling repellant and/or oily Skin So Soft, which has its own strong odor. (Steven calls it “Stinks So Much.”)
But no, I go into the bathroom to get ready for bed, and there’s one flying around, just starting his night of partying.
I’m not good at catching these guys, but I’m determined.
I’ll spend like 10 minutes clapping at the air, making a huge racket trying to squash one. It’s especially humiliating with no clothes on, clapping my hands above my head like a naked Flamenco dancer. Or, if I’m on the toilet, a sitting Flamenco dancer. The laziest kind.
I’m most terrified I’ll get bitten on the eye.
This used to happen at least once a summer at camp, causing the lid to swell shut for three days and earning me the nickname “Puffy Eye.”
But I also dread the 4:45 am wakeup. Just anticipating it keeps me from falling asleep. And so does the paranoia that they’re already on me, lining up for the Early Bird buffet.
Now, I’m scared of my own hair.
My hair keeps tickling my face and making me think it’s the dickheads. Last night at 3 am, after lying restless and swatting at my own bangs for about 2 hours without a wink of sleep, I put on a bandana to keep my hair back.
Once I did that, the tickling continued. So I hadn’t been paranoid for no reason. It was my hair AND the dickheads — working in tandem to drive me crazy.
I finally fell asleep, and woke up with three bites on my cheek.
No, they’re not bedbugs.
A friend asked me about this today, because I’ve been posting about the dickheads on facebook. From now on, I’ll make sure to mention “flying” or “buzzing” whenever I refer to them. I don’t want people afraid to hug me. The fact that they’re not bedbugs is the one thing I like about them.
But I still hate them.
Today I’m getting one of those plugin things. The chemicals probably cause long-term brain damage, but so does lack of sleep.
If that doesn’t work, we’re moving to Canada. Apparently, that’s where you go when you hate something here.
Of course, the dickheads will probably track us down. If they can live in the cold, who’s to say they can’t use the internet?