A Suburban Horror Story

I’ve been staring incessantly at my phone for the last few days, begging it to light up with an unknown number. It seems strange to many that I would want this, but those also waiting for Law journals to make a decision that appears to involve intense negotiations which could unhinge the universe understand.

Yes, friends, law school even owns your soul in summer.

In other news, I’ve been distracting myself by turning the house into a home for Nick and I, which leads me to my story of bloodshed and pain. Or itchiness, whatever. Buying a house means we now have walls to paint, furniture to buy (and assemble), and a yard. Currently, our summer has had an average temperature far past boiling point and the humidity levels surpassed “sauna” and are now at “Venus”. This means half my plants are dying, my herbs are cursing at me, and the weeds are frolicking with joy. Last night, enjoying a cool day of 90 degrees with only 80% humidity, I decided to use the waning evening hours to start tending to said weeds. I stepped out the front door, for a moment charmed by the sounds of children and faint twinkling of lightning bugs.

And then I heard the dreaded high pitched whine of a mosquito and two pinches, one on my arm, one on my leg. I realized that my blood had not been soured to the taste of these flying Typhoid Marys by spicy food and wine, and I still served as a Happy Meal with legs to them.

I retreated inside, sprayed myself down with OFF, and ventured out. However, within five minutes, another whine and pinch on the other arm made me think I needed more OFF. Back in I went, precious daytime light rapidly vanishing, along with my patience. The process repeated itself two more times until I gave into my frustration and doused myself in so much OFF that my arms glistened like an oiled-up wrestler ready to get down and grab hold of an opponent.

It didn’t even take a minute for a mosquito to land on an arm still soaking with OFF and take a bite. I screamed some obscenities, teaching the neighborhood kids fun new ways to drop the F-bomb and combine crude words for female body parts with breakfast food, and slapped the little bastard of itchy doom into a blood and wing smeared pancake. I then retreated inside to shower, deciding that all the OFF was doing was probably upping my chances of cancer and ceding the yard to the bugs. Later that night, I googled to see if DDT was still an option (it’s not) and asked Dad his advice (“A cigar, it keeps all sorts of pests away, including hippies.”).

On the upside, however, I still seem to be resistant to poison ivy, which I might have accidentally smacked on my leg after being bitten by a mosquito.

If anyone has any mosquito-repelling advice, I am begging and pleading for help (I’ll also take tips on killing outdoor ants). Please, my garden needs weeding without me needing quinine and potentially using enough DEET to cause the EPA to declare my yard a Superfund site. Also, remember when you move into a house, you get a yard, and Mother Nature is not as awesome as you remember.