That's Life: Summer Brings Winged Invasion
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But I have been chasing a moth. The moth, dressed in beige, was relaxing on the door to my bedroom when I first saw it. Of course, as soon as I raised my slipper, poised to strike it, it vanished. I searched the rug, running my foot over the thick pile. What a great place that rug would have been for the moth to hide, as they both are the same color.
I gave up the hunt after a while, and instead made sure all seven closets in my home were tightly shut. What a feast awaits the moth, if it lands in the closet where I store my winter coats.
If it attracts a mate and they reproduce and set up housekeeping, I might one day discover that all that is left of my wool coat are the buttons that fell to the floor of the closet when the cloth that had supported them disappeared, having been devoured by the moth and his family.
Why do moths consider wool such a tasty treat, I wonder? That brings another question to mind, "Who came up with the name cotton candy for the spun-sugar confection we enjoy eating?"
Tonight is not the first time a winged insect has robbed me of sleep. The drone of a mosquito has caused me to bolt out of bed more than a couple of times. When I am armed with a broom, hoping to annihilate the intruder, I realize trying to catch a mosquito is like trying to catch a falling star: They both move so swiftly, my eyes are unable to follow them.
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A moth is silent, but a mosquito torments me with its constant buzzing, which I interpret as a threat: "I'm going to get you." As I stand guard, waiting for the mosquito to attack, I swing the broom from wall to wall. Luck is on the mosquito's side and it escapes death by broom. I take a new tack. "Be kind," I say to myself, "open the windows wide and invite the mosquito to enjoy the outdoors." Truth be told, I really am only trying to entice my winged enemy to explore the world where millions of people could quench its thirst for blood.
Finally, exhausted, I surrender to sleep and to the mosquito who apparently is too comfortable in my home to think of leaving. The mosquito, however, is still awake. It is busy making its mark — a bite on my back. I am not aware of the bite until the itch propels me to the mirror, searching for the cause of my discomfort.
I line up homespun remedies for relieving the itch — toothpaste, cologne, calamine lotion. Since I am not a contortionist, I am unable to reach the bite using only my hand.
Deciding to try the toothpaste first, I spread some on a washcloth, which I tape to a ruler. The tape does not adhere to the washcloth, so I use a rubber band. Standing in front of the mirror above my bureau, I maneuver the ruler down my back and rub the washcloth over the spot that is growing itchier with each passing moment.
Meanwhile, I am regretting that I had surrendered to the mosquito and fell into the arms of Morpheus before I had trapped and had squashed it with the broom.
Summer is a lovely season I look forward to with glee, but I wish mosquitos, moths, and the ugly multiple-legged insects that brazenly fly into my home when I open the patio door would go south for the summer.
