The Crickets ARE NOT in Times Square

Because they are following me through the great state of Texas. Throughout the 6 years I lived at the last apartment complex, my friends, coworkers and family were regularly regaled with The Great Cricket Tales: How for one particularly bad 2 weeks, I’d have 7-8 new ones come to visit every night; how they could jump as high as my waist; how that jumping was so loud that I kept thinking there was another person messing around in the apartment; and how I could swear up and down that they were IN MY INTERCOM BOX. These sound like exaggerations, but they are not. I admit that the intercom box one sounded a little daffy even to me, until one day I SAW one of them scuttling back into said box which eventually led to the dismounting of the box, only to find (if you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip ahead) at least 20. dead crickets. inside.

So most of these friends and family thought it was totally crazy that there were crickets coming into my apartment in the first place. Ants, beetles, spiders, even scorpions... yeah, those are regular sightings in Texas homes. But crickets? Apparently, it was only me. Oh, they’d pat my hand and say, “there, there,” but I’m quite certain that they’d all go on and regale all of their friends with The Great “Crazy Girl with the Cricket Tales” Tales. I felt somewhat validated when upon moving out with the help of some of these people, behind the washer and dryer which hadn’t been moved for 6 years, there were dozens upon dozens of old dead crickets. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about those crickets, were you?”

Kidding? Yes, I love to make up stories about being scared shitless over creatures the size of my thumb.

It took no longer than 2 weeks here in Austin for them to find me again. Oh the familiar sound of long floppy legs and merry chirping (“We’re here! We’re here! Did you miss us?”). To my pleasant surprise, however, I’ve discovered that when I see one, I’m no longer immediately frozen with fear. My heart doesn’t start to race and I don’t start sweating with only one thing left to do: stand there staring at it for one whole minute as it gleefully frolics around the room until I work up enough courage to run for the Raid, spray the thing from 8 ft. away and shriek each time it jumps (insect activists should stop reading here) until it finally gives up and dies, leaving me in a cloud of toxic fumes.

NOW, I see one of my cricket friends and say, “Well, of course.” I immediately reach for the Woolite Carpet Cleaner (might as well clean the carpet while I’m at it) and give the thing a few squirts to slow it down. And then, sometimes while it’s STILL ALIVE, I’ll either push it toward the door to kick it outside or I’ll pick it up with a paper towel and flush it down the toilet. No toxic fumes required.

By golly, if for nothing else, graduate school is good for your fear of crickets.