This is a tale of pleasure and horror, a comedy/tragedy if you will: it will warm and cheer your heart, chill your bones, and hopefully give you the giggles.
Nina Israel, Julie's best friend, had been invited by us to come away from Las Vegas (the depths) to Boulder Creek (the heights) for a visit with Julie in relatively peaceful, quiet, bucolic simplicity. The girls arrived before supper time yesterday; we had a little wine and some hors d'oeuvres in the Parental Suite; a wonderful shrimp/chicken/vegetable stir-fry dinner provided by John; and a bit of an evening chat over homemade lemon/lavender-sugar cookies and Sleepytime Tea.
Being suitably soporific by then, we began to prepare to go to beddy-bye.
Things began to go rapidly downhill, however, at this point. First, we got out the Aerobed and pump for same – only to discover that the Nicad batteries in the pump had died. John read the instructions aloud: "if the batteries need to be recharged, connect the device to an electrical recharger and leave plugged in for 12 hours." Oh dear. We thought about an all-night poker tournament, but that did not appeal. We considered Charades; nah.
The resourceful girls then created a bedroll on the newly-cleaned carpet in the guest-suite-to-be, for Nina; and Julie settled on the leather sofa in the parlor. Goodnight, all; sleep well!
HAH! No sooner had we turned out all the lights, than the night was pierced by a shrill and horrible sound: a regular Pavarotti of a cricket had invaded our Parental Suite. (John, who falls asleep as soon as head hits pillow, was snoring away -- but that distracting noise was overcome by Luciano's piercing falsetto.) I turned on the bedside lamp and said "Whatinhell is that??" John turned over and said, "What? I don't hear anything," and soon was singing the baritone part of the aria again.
I sneaked out to see if the girls in the upper section of the building could hear anything: They, by this time, were up again and huddled on Nina's floor pallet, whispering away happily (as all PJ-Party girls do once they think their parents are asleep). "Did you hear it?' I squeaked. "Aw, Mom, it's just a cricket," Julie responded. "Why, we've killed a fly and a spider in this room already, in the last 15 minutes!"
"Well, my dears, this makes Three, then," I retorted. "Since you are such brave slayers of bugs, come get your third prey!"
So, armed with a can of hair spray (Nina) and a glass cup (Julie) we stalked back into the big bedroom, turned on all the lights including the floodlights in the high ceiling, and made John get up to help.
But it was our Fearless Fem Duo that prevailed, that night. They spotted this little teeny pale-green cricket in a corner; Nina blasted it with several shots of SuperHold Suave HairGloss (which stunned the critter, as well it might) -- and then as Julie approached with glass cup in hand (to catch-and-release, I suppose) Nina delivered the coup-de-grace by slamming the hairspray can down hard on the victim. "Step back, Julie," she muttered soulfully: "he just committed suicide, because no one appreciated his singing."
At this point, my Big Brave Dog stumbled over with a handful of Kleenex, mopped up the remains of the crime, and dumped the evidence in the wastebasket.
"If I hear any singing coming from that trash-can, I'm going to kill someone!" I shouted. But the evil deed was fully accomplished, well and truly.
..... There may have been more sibilant sounds out in the guest-suite – because I imagine this mild interruption didn't stop the late-night exchange of confidences; if so, I heard nothing more, until 8:30 AM this morning.
Thanks be to God and my Girls!
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4 comments:
Horrors! Death by hairspray!!
This is the Granny that gave Tristan a copy of "The Cricket of Times Square"--go figure!
Once upon a time, a friend and I rented a summer cottage near where we were working. It had a very old stove/oven. I opened it one morning, thinking to use it, and found...a mouse nest and mouse droppings! When the handyman came by a few days later, he did some chin work and declared the thing "yep, old as Lincoln, old as Lincoln'. He also lauded my scientific approach of looking first before turning on the oven...the mice might have cooked! Or, Kathy my roommate and I speculated, hooting with horror, pop pop go the mice, like heated-up popcorn! Ewwww.
But seriously: when you live in the woods, you often do end up sharing your home with critters. Tristan or I might have caught the little fellow and set him outside!
The thing is, Teri, a cricket in Times Square is one matter: a cricket in your F...ing bedroom is quite another.
And: if I ever find a mouse in my glorious double convection oven, I'm going to sue!
Also: I know critters will be showing up, since we live in the woods: but PLEASE, don't tell Leenie! She'll never have the joy of staying here overnight, and it's truly compensation for whatever occurs.
I hope Nikki doesn't read this. Whatever happened to trapping them and putting them outside?
No kidding, Greta! Just remember every critter is someone else's predator - kill the spiders and crickets at your own risk. I will also tell you now that if you kill a cricket in Rowan's presence, your relationship with him will never be the same. He loves the idea of fishing, hates the site of twisting, bleeding fish.
As for mice, I can say from experience that another good place to check, if you know you have mouse issues, is the back of the stove, in the insulation - bang on the stove for about five minutes, loud as you can, before turning the stove on. Toasted mouse does NOT smell good - they're not like food animals. Maybe it's also that they haven't been properly dressed first; cooked gizzards and fur don't smell so good. It can take a year for the smell to leave - you have to replace the stove.
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