I’m so tired I’m seeing things all blurry. What a life I’m having. Suddenly cast into the weird psychotic inner landscape that happens when I’m facing major life change – specifically when I’m getting ready to leave a place I’ve settled in to. When I was little, big geographical transitions were usually accompanied by some sort of nasty trauma. So with that wired into my brain, I now face moving away from Austin, a home I’ve lived in longer than anywhere else, my community, such as it is, my neighbors, my goddaughter, the grackles, the bats, Barton Springs, that blue blue sky and gorgeous afternoon light, the Gulf . . . oh Austin, how do I love thee?
Moving to . . . Louisville, more of an idea than a real place, so far. The idea is one of proximity to family, helping our parents as they age, getting the family support we need, the sense of safety in living with a clan (should the poo hit the fan, it’s nice to know there are permanent support people close by). A very grown-up idea of commitment and responsibility. Housing our daughter in a place we own, working out plans to reach a high enough income bracket that we can consider helping Rocky through college and even – heavens to Betsy! – planning our own retirement. Ick. Grown-up stuff. I never, ever thought I’d let money matter. Money=Evil. My old retirement plan was to stay off the grid, live in a trailer on a mountain and shoot squirrels out my window for dinner.
The very good thing about leaving is that we will escape the hideous blood-sucking parasites that are crawling out of our walls and slowly exsanguinating us in the black of night.
Cimex lectularius: did you know that they mate by “traumatic insemination”, wherein the male pierces the female’s body cavity with his reproductive “device”? Sometimes, males inseminate other males. I think I hear a Gay Bedbug Pride parade in my mattress seam.
Apparently there’s quite a resurgence of them in the U.S., and it doesn’t matter whether you’re poor and live in a filthy poo-crusted hovel or rich and living in a febreeze-filled mansion. OK, the filth apparently doesn’t help matters. But they’re showing up everywhere, is my point, which makes me feel a little bit better about my own situation, given that I too am prey to the insidious deep-seated knowledge that having bedbugs in your house makes you a disgusting leprous gutter-creeper that God Himself despises.
The very sad thing is that we will probably lose our babysitting gig with Baby Bumbo, who I’ve fallen completely in love with, and I wouldn’t blame her parents for it either. Once they’ve discovered sweet-blooded hosts and moved into the cracks in your walls and started making babies, it’s very, very hard to eradicate them. I just hope they haven’t already climbed into the little car seat she sleeps in and hitched a ride to their house across the street.
We will do what we can to kill them, but I think Rukan’s pretty much ready to throw everything in the house out on the street and put plastic sheeting all over our walls, and wear one of those white disease-suits like the guys in E.T. wore. Then leave the very moment we’re able.
I told Rukan that there are bedbugs in Louisville too, but she didn’t seem to hear me.