Many years ago while camping with some friends it was determined that based on evolutionary standards, my husband is a Hunter. My friend’s husband, then boyfriend, was most definitely a Gatherer. We also determined in our drunken academic state that this is why they worked well together and would be ideal mates in our hunter-gatherer society. We are oh-so scientific when drinking vodka and Yoo-hoo in the middle of the forest.
But this assessment is quite spot-on even when sober. And never more so than in the summer.
When the crickets are out.
And when I say out I don’t mean they’re flying their rainbow flags chirping “We’re Queer and We’re Here!” I mean they have taken over the damn yard and house. They are EVERYWHERE. (I found one in the kitchen cabinet last night. And another in the bathroom. They were both babies. It was hard to kill them.) But its the minuscule sound they make, the chirp chirp chirp, that is sending Juanito over the edge to where he is hunting them in the dark with a flashlight. Oh, and talking to them, because saying “Com’on out little motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you” is like whispered sweet sweet nothings to a cricket. And pounding on the kitchen counter because “there is one under the dishwasher” is like a mating call, right? He's like a whisperer. We're gonna get a TV show on NatGeo soon. I can feel it.
This cricket hunting isn’t a new thing by all means. He does this every summer. A few years ago he and his trusty Mag Lite located one under the base boards in the bed room. There he was with the side of his face smooshed against the wall sitting on the tile floor in his boxers, listening. When he noticed me looking at him with more pity than lust he incredulously says “What? He’s in the wall.”
Its always a male cricket coincidentally. You would think that by the sheer number of them it might suggest a female or two, but Juanito always says “he.”
So recently one of twothings has happened…or maybe both. (1) The infestation has increased. or (2) His hunting skills have sharpened. He will use whatever he can get a hold of to kill: a shoe, a magazine, a flip flop, a tissue, his own foot (bleecch!!!). There are little smears of death all over the tile floors. The death toll increases everyday. There are cricket mothers crying and cursing his name.
The other night after a lovely display of two-year old defiance and subsequent time out, I sat down on the floor with The Boy to discuss the whys of the time out only to find a little cricket leg stuck to the floor. No cricket body. Just a leg. One little brown leg. It was sad. And gross. In his defense, Juanito did mop the entire lower level of the house (which is all tile) so the streaks of death are gone. For now.
Sometimes the hunting is comical. Case in point the other night while sitting on the couch watching the Olympics a cricket of substantial proportions flew, literally flew over the back of the couch and landed on ME. I haven’t flung my body in five different directions in a long time, which but it obviously attracted the questioning eyes of Juanito. I explained to him before he could make too much fun of me that a cricket attacked me. It was his turn to fly over the couch and into a pile of pillows and The Boys’ toys with a crash and a few thuds and definitive “Fucker” indicating that the cricket got away.
Other times the hunting is seriously annoying. When we go to bed at night, if we don’t watch TV we read. Actually I read and he sleeps. I have a hard time shutting it all off and going to sleep (I’m sure you’re surprised). Juanito has given me a step by step process of “How to Turn Your Brain Off” and it doesn’t work. So when I’m reading and he is laying there you would think with the Brain Off thing he wouldn’t notice the chirp chirp chirp but nooooo. He will jolt out of bed without a word and start stalking a cricket that is on the other side of the house. So much for your super cool Jedi mind control at night huh?