We Are Not Alone

When I think of the inhabitants of Ivy Bend (the domicile hubby and I call home), I think of hubby, me, and our kitty kids.  But it's just not so.

Last night we were enjoying our Happy Hour in our finished basement pub when our little Princess scampered across the floor in pursuit of a BIG black UGLY spider.  Mr. Spider was soon dispatched, thanks to hubby's shoe. Then came the big flush.  Down went Mr. Spider.

Not 20 minutes later, as I was perusing Christmas With Victoria  for the 20th time, I looked down to grab my whiskey and soda from James the Butler (i.e. drink stand) and saw Mr. Icky-Bug sitting on the arm of the couch next to me.

Can any other woman fly off a couch and SCREAM as loud as me?  I think not!  Then with the blue Croc (shoe) of death in hand, I proceeded to beat Mr. Icky-Bug into a coma, while hubby cheered, "Flush him, Flush him!"  A wad of toilet paper later, and Mr. Icky-Bug was making his way down to the waste treatment plant.

Now I like to think of myself as a pacifist, but I will not tolerate bugs in my home.  They can live a long and happy life OUTSIDE of my house, the choice is theirs, but coming inside is the absolute kiss of death.

I don't like to think about the millions of other creatures (spiders, aphids, ants, dust mites) that might be living among us, let alone the occasional mouse who finds his/her way in here on a cold desolate night.  The idea that unknown creatures reside amongst us is downright creepy.  Early this morning, something was trying to scratch its way into the attic.  A few bangs on the wall soon discouraged it.  But what will happen when I'm not around listening for it?

I believe I'll take the Scarlett O'Hara approach to all this and "think about it another day."