I reached down to brush what I thought was a crumb from my chest and what do I find? A big ass bug. No idea what kind because I was too busy hopping up and down and hollering.
This is what I hate about living out in the sticks. Besides the fact that it takes 20 minutes to get anywhere, there are bugs. Jesus, are there bugs. Big, scary-looking June bugs that beat themselves against the screens. Crickets. The crickets have invaded my cellar. They sound lovely when they're outside, chirruping away at night, atmospheric and relaxing. They sound really fucking loud when they're in your bedroom. You can't find them, but you can hear them and you just know they're going to hop on you just as you start to fall asleep. You want to see someone go from asleep to flailing around like a lunatic, let a cricket jump on their face, then sit back and watch the ensuing hilarity. Just make sure you stay out of the way of the thrashing arms and legs.
Worst of all are the spiders. I never knew there were so many kinds of spiders in New England. Little black ones, tiny tan ones, big, threatening-looking brown and black striped jobs and the ones I hate the most: Daddy Long Legs. They look like alien robots. They get on the ceiling and just crawl around in their hurky-jerky way and I sit there and watch them, paralyzed. When I yell for my husband to come and kill it (feeling like Bill Cosby the whole while - Kill it!!!), he just laughs at me. I've become better at smashing the things. And I know, I know, it's bad luck to kill a spider. But I think the spider is the one with the bad luck. If you don't want to die, don't come in my house.