I once wrote a story entitled “Would You Like Bugs With That?” as an ode to all the bugs I encountered in Thailand. I feel the difference between Bermuda and Thailand is that in Thailand, your encounters with bugs are a bit more voluntary. Hungry? Why not try a bug on a stick? No? How about a snow cone cup of bugs shaken with salt and vinegar? Still no? Well, at least you had the option. OK…maybe the hand-sized spider with the baseball shaped egg sac above my cot in southern Thailand wasn’t necessarily by choice. I’ll give you that one. But as I settle into my new home in Bermuda, I find that I am in a constant war. A war with a clear and defined winner. And unfortunately folks, it ain’t me. I fight for my food. I fight for my floor space. I fight for clean counters. So far it’s Team Tobey…zero. The Coalition of all things with wings, feet numbering over one hundred, or antennae…fifty. Who am I kidding? I lost count somewhere after the fist cockroach stole my flip flop, and the ants stole my fish cake.
My losses in this battle against the bugs is not for want of tools in my artillery. We have painted for termites. Literally. Imagine a lung-burning reddish/orange lacquer covering all the surface areas on which you eat, store plates, or prepare food. Anyone for dinner at my place tonight? We have sprayed for ants. This may be at first confused with a victory as their immediate death is a sure bet, but somehow the death toll is nothing compared to the comrades that come to defend the death of their brethren. And we have swung at the cockroaches. OK…those bastards are tricky. They taunt me. Their huge bodies somehow sneak out from a paper thin hole in the wall, smile as they wag their little atenae at me (just baiting me to come play), and then disappear before I can even swing Mark’s size fourteen sandal in their general vicinity. Like I had a prayer. Amateur.
One of the scariest sites I have yet to see in Bermuda is…an open sugar container. Honey bottle. Sugar shaker. Mark’s sticky suckers from Marks & Spencer. As soon as I see any of these sugary sweets exposed in the open, I spring into action. Damage report. Is there a trial of them leading to the exposed sugar item, which is now a mound of brown moving parts? No. OK. Scan the area. What are the possible entrance points? Path of attack? As quickly and as quietly as possible, remove the sugar from the area. If possible, ship it off the island. Take cover. They will be here any minute. They know it’s here. They’re coming. Every hair on my body is standing on end. Grab a wet rag. Grab a can of Baygon and hope you aren’t doing permanent damage to your lungs and other vital organs. Or the best option…grab the vacuum…nozzle in hand…and get ready to pounce. It’s me versus them. Take no prisoners. Death to the ants!
I can’t count the amount of times I have been sitting on my highly overpriced couch (yes we bought it used…no there is nothing special about it…it’s just that expensive) and have noticed a slight tickle. Ah. Got it. I don’t even flinch. No tissues required. Just two fingers. Pinch and move on. Continue previous activity. Tickle tickle. Down goes another one. This can continue a few minutes. Only once you have surpassed the five-minute mark is it time to start worrying. Get up. Fast. Move the coffee table. Rip off the couch cushions. Total mayhem. Ants everywhere. Up the back. In the cracks. Under the bottom. Their target? A single rogue raisin. One thought and one thought alone enters my head before any plan of attack. MARK!! Stop eating on the couch!!! OK…realizing that this thought is no way helping me conquer the current crisis crawling before my eyes, I take any of the aforementioned weapons and get to business.
I think the most tiring part of the entire scenario is not the fact that I really don’t have just one 6”4’’ roommate, but the fact that no matter how much I spray, how much I paint, or how much I swing, all of my effort is in vain. I will always have at least five hundred tiny, annoying, non-rent paying, food-stealing, dirty roommates. How many times has a perfectly lovely summer evening in Bermuda been sidetracked as I enter the kitchen to do the dishes (having Mark help with the dishes requires a whole different story about the incredible lack of observational powers of the male species) only to see that our white counter tops are now a translucent brown, shiny, metallic, purple, silver sheet of bugs. I have no official name for these roommates besides a royal pain in my $%*! These centipede-like creatures shed their wings to then crawl around aimlessly in search of…what?!?! What do you want!? Tell me and I’ll give it to you to make you go away! They seem to just be content flying into candles. Or hovering around lamps. Or just dying all over my counter leaving thousands (yes thousands) of wings everywhere. And no sooner have I wiped up all of their discarded wings and wriggling little bodies (forget about cleaning the dishes…we are at battle!), do I turn around, and the counter is covered again.
If I put everything I buy into the tightly sealed refrigerator (they just don’t make those things big enough in my opinion), I can keep away the ants. If I eliminate all usage of lights and candles, I can get rid of the weird flying centipede worms. If I buy furniture made of plastic, I can eliminate the termite’s food supply. And if I develop the reflexes of Mr. Miagi, I can chase and catch those sassy cockroaches. But until then…it’s just me and my 501 roommates.
The consummate underdog,
Team Tobey
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