I love my apartment, but I do not love sharing it with my six-legged friends.
In the summer, it's ants--largeish black carpenter ants all over my kitchen. They inhabited my garbage can, formed neat military lines along the floor at the bottom of the cupboard, and were always appearing at the corner of my vision as they crawled up the walls. I had dreams about them until the cold weather drove them back into their little nest under the back steps. (I did inform the landlord of the problem, but, being the sexist charmless bastard that he is, he declared that they couldn't possibly be carpenter ants and that I didn't know what I was talking about. Ah well, his walls, not mine.)
This winter it's grain moths. They flit mindlessly around my house after hitching a ride in with some oatmeal from the bulk foods section at Hannaford. They're really difficult to get rid of, and they leave little larva and webs in my dry goods. I actually don't care about eating bugs--as long as I don't know I'm eating them. That is to say, it's the thought of them in my mouth--not my stomach--that bothers me. I used to try to take a philosophical approach to bug infestation, saying to myself (and to anyone else who would listen) that bugs are just trying to live, like the rest of us, and that as long as my food was clear of them we're OK sharing space. However, the bugs clearly did not get that memo about mutual respect of arbitrary boundaries, and they have crossed the line.
I invested in some large freezer bags, threw out those old boxes of cous-cous and last year's easter candy, but the moths won't. go. away. They're no longer in my food, but are living somewhere in the plastic-wrapped nether-world of my shelves.
[cue snare drums] I do not feel philosophical and peace-loving any more: I have pulled the last larvae from my pasta, rinsed the last moth from my drinking glass. [cue strings] It's war, little buggies. [cue strings] The bleach monster is paying a visit this weekend.
[orchestra swells, fade to flapping flag] Mwaahhh haa haaa.