A few weeks ago, I introduced you to the type of bug that has been… gracing us with its presence.
Slauditory kindly identified it as a silverfish.
We’ve had a bit of a warm snap since then. (Warm snap? Snap sounds appropriate with cold… But not so much with warm. Warm… ooze? A warm… soak?)
We’ve had a bit of a warm soak since then. And we’ve seen about one silverfish a day. ONE A DAY. I know this is not really infestation levels. But it SUCKS. I do not LIKE silverfish. Especially because they show up primarily in the master bedroom, the master closet, and the master bathroom.
I do not relish standing on my bed at midnight, staring nervously at the ceiling, trying to coax a silverfish to run sufficiently AWAY from my bed so that I can squish it with the Swiffer without fear of it falling ON the bed.
So I called an exterminator and set up an appointment for today. The very night that I scheduled our appointment, I had a horrible nightmare. I dreamed that millions of silverfish started pouring out of the wall above the headboard. A flood of silverfish, coursing down over my bed and through the bedroom, clogging my nose and ears and covering my body.
Oh Internet. It was HORRIBLE. One of those nightmares that stays with you.
It did not help that I saw TWO SILVERFISH in the master bathroom the very next day.
He came today and was very nice. Sprayed some sort of horrific poison all around our house, inside and out.
I found myself telling him about my nightmare. Because… well, I am nothing if not socially awkward to the max.
He laughed politely. (Because what other response is appropriate, when some strange woman starts confiding the wackadoo workings of her mind to you?)
And then I asked him if we would start finding dead bugs all over our house. Or if the poison would just… you know, keep them AWAY. Which is really my preference. Paint a big neon sign on our house that says, “Bugs Not Welcome,” so that they shrug their ten zillion tiny shoulders and decide to head for Atlanta. Which, really, if I were a bug, I’d much prefer. The winters are pretty harsh in these parts. (Not harsh enough, thought, on a bug deterrent level.)
Anyway. The exterminator said, “It will kill them all… But the poison [he didn’t say “poison,” per se. I think he said “chemical,” which sounds a lot less nerve-damagey than “poison,” dontcha think?] will draw them out.
“So things will get worse before they get better.”
INTERNET. I almost died, right there.
I do not do well with bugs.
I mean, I can squish one if necessary. Or get a too-large-to-squish spider to climb onto a wad of toilet paper so I can flush it whole. (I KNOW. I am a cruel, heartless person.)
But any kind of bug in NUMBERS gives me the shakes. And the vapors. The shakey vapors.
After I recovered from almost passing out and shook the memory of my nightmare from my head, I gently tried to find out what “things will get worse” really MEANS.
Does it mean… a LOT of silverfish? (And OTHER ASSORTED BUGS, GAH.) Does it mean… one or two a day? Three or five? Twenty? A WATERFALL OF STAGGERING, HALF DEAD INSECTS STREAMING DOWN MY WALLS?
The exterminator was very unspecific. Would it be a couple more bugs a day? Well, maybe. Worse than that? He couldn’t really say.
“You won’t be having nightmares,” was his best reassurance.
Then he told me to call him if, in two weeks, it wasn’t better.
Two weeks of an indeterminate amount of “worse” before I can call to let him know that it… hasn’t worked? Oh em gee Internet.
Okay, I know that as far as PROBLEMS go, this is NOT the worst. Bugs are just bugs, after all. They aren’t murderers. Or disease. Or anything REALLY horrible.
But can we agree that, on the Problem Scale, this is at the very least “Vexing”? I spend Every Waking Hour in my house. It is my workplace as well as my home. And I do not relish the idea of sharing this space with “worse.”
I don’t even know what to ask from you, at this point, Internet. Reassurance, yes. But I am not keen to hear your OWN stories of infestation because I am already twitching with imagined insect crawlingness AS I TYPE.
So. Any reassurance? Any idea what “things will get worse” really MEANS? And if it DOES mean “armies of bugs marching through every room, bent on terrorizing me with their last breath,” I guess I WOULD like to know that. So I can check into a hotel or, you know, move away.