As I strolled through downtown Wilmette yesterday, thinking about nothing in particular, something triggered an instant acknowledgement that fall had arrived. I’m not sure what caused the realization, but in all likelihood many things–a few errant degrees Fahrenheit, warmer clothes, school busses–were responsible.
Do you know what I’m talking about, gentle reader? For the first time in a long while you smell a fireplace burning, and snapshots of snow, people, and lights sprawl themselves before you in a flash. Perhaps you collect more snapshots as you get older, carefully filing them away until they’re needed. And then, when those cabinets suddenly snap open, you lay out your snapshots and examine them. You miss, you hate, and you wonder, all at the same time.
I’m meeting a client for lunch tomorrow, gentle reader, so you know what that means. It means I’m going to have to break out the long pants. On one hand, this is problematic because my powers wane as soon as khaki wraps around my ankles. On the other hand, this is good because my powers basically include sneezing onto leather portfolios and weeping uncontrollably at the mention of “value-added turnkey solutions.” If I do start to cry, I’ll have to remember to cry into the other person’s soup.
The house centipede, one of the fastest insects I’ve ever had to chase down, visits my apartment once every few weeks. It’s not the same centipede, as I tend to terminate the suckers, but you know what they say: all house centipedes look alike.
The few articles I’ve read about my prey say that although these buggers can bite and poison you, you shouldn’t be afraid because they’re not inclined to do so. This factoid might comfort some gentle readers, but it does scant little to put me at ease. I mean, black widows don’t exactly covet human flesh, nor do brown recluses construct elaborate webs to ensnare small children. What I’m trying to say is these creatures don’t actively attack you, yet they’re dangerous anyway. I could be wrong, of course, in which case I should pray to the Orkin Man that house centipedes aren’t poised over my doorway this very moment, plotting to incapacitate and devour me.
What would you do if you saw one? Whenever I spy one, especially in the evening or before nap time, I begin to imagine the same insect crawling up my bedpost, leaping onto my face, and having its way with my eyebrows. This usually encourages me to take action. The tissue method, perfect for catching smaller insects, doesn’t seem as attractive here. There’s an unspoken law where tissue efficacy is negatively correlated to, oh, THE NUMBER OF GODDAMN LEGS ATTACHED TO THE FOUL BEAST. That’s probably why some websites insist on using boric acid to kill these bastards. I’ve never appreciated chemistry, so I can’t even begin to describe boron to you. Is it even on the periodic table? This is why you should raid your cleaning cabinet for anything remotely acidic. I wrapped my hands on some “Lime Away,” which apparently contained enough sauce to win the day.
How do you determine whether something is acidic enough? I haven’t the foggiest idea. This “science” hoodoo seems a little too mystical, so perhaps you should just try stuff out. And for the love of Fleming, don’t even think about taste-testing your chemicals. Leave that to the professionals.