This is apparently what Jiminy Cricket looks like naked. God bless his tailor.
Hate's a strong word, so whatever word is most immediately less harsh than the H one is how I feel toward bugs.
Having been attacked by one the summer following my first-grade year -- specifically, a beetle with pinchers that crawled up my leg and wouldn't shake loose despite two quick laps around the daycare playground -- I've since had a mild phobia of them.
Crickets, however, have always been a different story. Mamaw used to tell me they were good luck, so she'd catch the occasional stray one in her house and toss it gently out the door. I'd wonder why she'd kick 'em out if they were such good luck, but I was usually happy enough to have them removed from my presence that I didn't question her.
But I wasn't afraid -- not until this summer. As y'all have probably noticed, we have an abundance of crickets. That's fine, all they do is chirp and hop around like little ravers of the insect world. Which, I guess, makes Jiminy Cricket the Beau Brummell of the insect world, dandified as he seemed in "Pinocchio."
Lately, though, they've been a tad trespass-y. I'm not sure if they hitch a ride on my pant leg or hop in really quick in the 10 seconds my door's open, but Ali Tabouli -- a.k.a., Katniss Everpussy -- finds them and plays with them to death.
At least he's not like Lord V's black-and-white cat, Dr. Entendre Ph.D. (that's actually his name), who likes to bring in those Coke can-sized cicadas in his mouth. Seriously, I thought he brought in a dead bird one night, and he dropped it on Lord V's stomach all proud-like, then the thing whirred to life - and so did I, right off the couch and toward the door, screaming like Prissy in "Gone With the Wind."
Well, that little experience must've been fresh on my mind Friday morning when I parked my car in the garage near work and took the stairs down. As soon as I opened the door, I heard crickets, their chirps all the louder in that concrete shaft of stairs. No biggie, it was kinda cool.
But two flights down, the sound got louder -- and the crickets became visible. Half the crickets were dead, or at least they looked it. Maybe they were just asleep, legs heavenward; but a few seemed to spring to life as I stepped around them. Then, a few were jumping on me.
"Oh, Lord," I thought, careful not to say anything out loud because a resurrected cricket might hop in mouth, "this is how I die -- death by cricket."
I was in my cowboy boots, so I can be tipped like a cow; consequently, quickening my pace was out of the question. I descended down the stairs, a cloud of zombie crickets -- or so I imagined -- chirping behind me. As soon as I was outside, I checked my pants legs for critters. Thankfully, they hadn't followed me.
I'm not sure where that whole thing about crickets being lucky came from. I don't care if they have a top hat, carry an umbrella and sing "When You Wish Upon a Star," I don't want the dang things near me.
Unless, of course, it's a talking cricket, which could totally make me rich.
Peace, love and zombie crickets ... XOXO
