I’m writing this post from my tiny apartment deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle. The mosquitoes here are as big as rat terriers and a thousand times more fierce. I’ll apologize in advance for any typos, but I can’t really see my computer so well on account of the bug net that shrouds my face. I would take a picture, but my camera is across the room and I’m afraid if I get up, I’ll be ambushed by a regiment of malaria-carrying skeeters.This might very well be my last post, which I realize is a cause for celebration for some of you. I’m afraid that I’m being driven to the brink of insanity by the incessant buzzing in my ears. Well, it’s either the mosquitoes that are doing the buzzing, or I have an earwhig lodged in my auditory canal. Either way I’m spazzing out.
Ok, so I’m not really in the jungle, although there are those who would have you believe that the Old North End is wild and woolly. I think it’s more crunchy myself, but that’s just the urbanite in me. Anyway, can someone please tell me what in the H-E-double hockey sticks is up with the mosquitoes in this town? Ok, I know it’s got something to do with the rain and probably global warming, and come to think of it, it’s probably my fault because I drove my car twice this week. Don’t tell Bill McKibben. But seriously, I’m getting attacked in my own apartment. As I write this, I’m watching a mosquito dance across my computer screen just asking for a slap. I’m about a minute away from lighting a citronella candle inside. If this continues, I’m pretty sure I’m going to come down with the first case of West Nile virus in the county. Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting West Nile, or bird flu for that matter. Then I’d have an awesome reason not to go to work or take my dog for a million or two walks a day. God, she’s so needy.
I’m pretty sure I know why the mosquitoes have pitched their tents in my apartment and it’s not because I’m some Buddha-loving peacenik in saffron robes who doesn’t believe in killing bugs. I have not created a safe haven in my apartment for skeeters. This is not a skeeter sanctuary. I’m nearly 100 percent certain I can blame the mosquito migration on my next-door neighbors, whom I will affectionately refer to henceforth as Judy and Chuck.
Judy and Chuck are, for lack of a better word, eccentric. They are building a geodesic dome in their backyard where they can store their lilies in the winter. I think they’re also planning on living in the dome upon its completion, since their ultimate goal is to live outside year-round. Their house will just be a place to store their reams of research on water gardens and astral projection. As a result of their years-long construction project, their backyard feels a bit like a the set of a Mad Max movie, albeit with really lovely flowers.
In addition to their backyard building bonanza, Judy and Chuck have taken over the expansive greenbelt in front of their house and turned it into some sort of feral garden. That’s a bit harsh. It’s like the garden equivalent of a hippie child who grew up on a commune with parents who smoked weed after dinner. It is without a doubt the highlight of the block. Every sort of plant has a home on this stretch of sidewalk from hydrangeas to my all-time favorite boxwood, which does not, in my opinion, smell like cat pee. Despite my love of formal display gardens, there’s something about Judy and Chuck’s anarchic landscaping that is intensely pleasing. The one major problem with their patchwork garden of many colors is that it is like a Monte Carlo for mosquitoes. In fact, I think at night I hear them calling out “Jackpot!” in their buzzy little mosquito voices.
For some reason, I’m particularly susceptible to bug bites. After a recent trip to the Adirondacks, I came back looking like I had a wicked case of shingles. I got so many bug bites, my lymph nodes swelled to the size of gumballs. I hate bugs. The fact that I once dated an entomologist remains a source of great amusement to many of my friends. I have no intention of sharing my living space with insects of any kind. And yet when I go out on my porch to read or eat my breakfast, I have to douse myself with bug spray that makes me smell like I bathed in Pledge. I got bitten three times today on my morning constitutional with the dog and twice in the house. I’m not sure what to do about the situation. The dog is completely ineffectual. If the problem was a mayfly infestation, she’d be all over it since those are a favorite snack of hers. But skeeters she could care less about.
So here I sit, covered in Calamine lotion, my body a connect-the-dots drawing of angry red welts, all thanks to the mosquito Diaspora in my neighborhood. Right about now, summer is looking pretty overrated and sub-freezing winter weather is looking pretty good.
