Oct
8
I had never heard of pantry moths until a few months ago, when I started spotting them in our kitchen. Plodia interpunctella, the Indian mealmoth, is a tiny brownish-grey insect that apparently spends the entirety of its life cycle 1) fluttering around erratically in front of your face whenever you open a cabinet, and 2) reproducing at an alarming rate. These motherfuckers have resisted my every attempt to ferret out their feeding/egg-laying source, even after I threw out half our food and stored every newly purchased dry good in sealed containers, and although they succumb by repulsive handfuls to the glue traps I’ve scattered hither and yon, the invasion NEVER ENDS.
They’re annoying, the way they come bumbling out of god-knows-where in the cabinets and launch into their herky-jerky flight patterns while I swat ineffectually at the air and whine like David Spade in Tommy Boy: “Can we get any MORE moths in here??” They’re gross, because their dying revenge is to leave a giant swath of bodily squish and dark wing-dust on whatever surface you’ve swatted them against. They’re MADDENING, since I know there’s a mess of larvae somewhere, probably in something I’m currently eating.
This would be a prime opportunity for Oregon’s unpleasantly large autumn spiders to endear themselves to me by serving as backup in the Pantry Moth Wars, but all the eight-legged members of our household seem focused on honing their startle tactics. I found one on the shower wall. Another came scuttling out from underneath the utensil drawer. I was getting into bed the other night and when I pulled back the sheet and blanket, there it was: huge. Horrible. Lurking there on my side of the bed, under the covers, in flagrant violation of all that is decent and acceptable in this world.
I told you about the snakes, right? JB went a little crazy and ripped out some boards in the sunroom walls, convinced we were housing some sort of reptilian lair. (Or hive. Whatever.) Nothing emerged, but the cats continue to produce a new snake at least every other day. It’s become just another regular chore around here: take out the trash. Clean the bathroom. EVICT THE GODDAMNED SNAKE.
In conclusion … well, I don’t have a conclusion. I have moths, spiders, and snakes. The end.
Sep
28
Pants can basically go fuck themselves. If something’s a little too tight or hits at the wrong spot, it’s worse than eating a pound of broccoli with a baked-beans chaser. Nothing will cause me to painfully inflate Goodyear-style like high-waisted denim, yet the low rise styles are equally bad because of the Ruptured Pillsbury Can effect. Those flattering, swoopy yoga pants have all been replaced by leggings, which almost always have thin elastic bands that dig into your belly oh and also they’re leggings. My ass is not in sausage-casing-display shape at the moment so no thanks, and ditto to fucking skinny jeans which I am SO. OVER.
There are now two choices: I can moisturize my feet with a thick oily lotion before I slide into bed, or I can wake up with hooves in the morning. Like actual hooves. Wildebeest hooves.
My knees have always sounded like they’re packed with ballbearings but now my elbows are joining the party. I was lowering myself into a noisy pushup at the gym the other day and the elderly lady next to me said, “Glucosamine, honey.”
The increasingly-frequent game of What’s That Skin Thing?
I was watching the cats playing in the sunroom and I found myself admiring the liquid grace of their movements. That was the exact phrase I thought of: Liquid grace. I’m a middle-aged lady with three cats, to whom I mentally assign NC-17 fanfic-sounding descriptives.
Do you need a tissue? Because I have some in my purse. A shitload of them, actually. They’re crumpled and dusty but they work just fine. I also have mints.
I saw one of those Facebook things the other day where you make a phrase out of the the color of your underwear and the last thing you ate, and my answer was “Beige Spinach.” I can’t remember if that was supposed to be my band name or my porn name, but either way it’s pretty tragic. I guess Beige Spinach, porn star, is probably worse, but on the plus side you know there’s at least one person out there whose ultra-specific kink would finally be fulfilled. (With liquid grace, he ran his tongue along her skin, which was neither milky white nor tan but somewhere in between…)
I used to wonder when I’d finally feel like a grownup. You know, someone worthy of the terrifying responsibility of, say, parenthood. But lately I’ve been finding comfort in the belief that while age brings experience and hopefully some wisdom, I think for the most part we never stop feeling like Space Dog.
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