Another Slight Case of Murder

There I was, barreling down Highway 50 west in Sacramento, approaching the crazy downtown freeway interchange where I'm about to switch to Highway 99 south. This requires complete mental focus. You can't be on the cell phone. You need both hands. You need flexible neck muscles for checking, double-checking, and triple checking that blind spot. You're trying to merge with other cars that are just getting on the freeway while battling other cars changing lanes this way while you change lanes that way. Any out-of-towners get confused by all the signs and try to mow you down. It's a scene, man.

Well, that doesn't really capture the chaos, does it?

Meanwhile, a bug, the likes of which I've never seen before, decides to make his presence known. I don't do bugs well. I can't negotiate the downtown freeway interchange if I'm preoccupied with a live bug in the car. Plus, I already know I have to blog about this so now I have to take pictures of the event, so I bust out my camera and start with the lame picture above, you know, to give you a sense of scene.

Mission accepted, I search my immediate area for a weapon:

Can't use my Gladys Tells All travel mug - there's still coffee in it. My laptop might not be the best thing either. So I pull out the most replaceable, yet sturdiest object and start whacking away at the dashboard with a camera between my legs and a freeway interchange ramp under my wheels - Wheeeeeeeee!

I manage to kill the bug while staying alive on the road. AND while responsibly using my blinkers.

Fifteen minutes later, I reach my doctor's office where I bust out the camera once again to get a shot of the criminal who couldn't hide in the backseat and simply wait it out and escape when I opened my door.

So what the heck is this thing, anyway? And yes, he's dead. Of blunt force trauma with a yellow notepad.

I swear, the things I do for you people.

Oh Yeah? How Long Has It Been Since YOU Took a Bath?

I haven't taken a bath since the sixth grade which, I realize, sounds gross and all but you're my peeps and I figure I can tell you just about anything (except for that thing last year with the cop and the algae and the 437 rolls of bubble wrap - I'm not ready to talk about that yet.)

Anyway, some Frenchy frog blogger named Sheila (Ma Vie Folie) who makes natural bath products out of her garage or something sent me a boatload of products with a note attached that said: "P.U. You stink!"

Well. Of all the nerve.

Also, while it's true I haven't taken a bath since the sixth grade, it's not like I haven't taken a shower since then - sheesh!


Is it just me, or is it fun to get stuff in the mail? It's me, isn't it. You probably hate getting stuff. You guys are all givers, right? Not me. I take, take, take and take some more. My middle name is gimmegimmegimme.

So I tried the Orange Dreamsicle Lip Balm. I liked how the smell/flavor wasn't overpowering enough to knock out small pets or the guy next to you on the subway, but enough for me to get a good whiff. And the balm is kind of soft, not like those mini-candles they sell at the impulse item section at Walmart. In fact, if I were the PR guy, I'd start an ad campaign with the slogan:

Try our balm. It doesn't scrape the crap out of your lips! 

Catchy, right? And that's just off the top of my head.

I also tried the Mmmm Cheesecake! Lip Balm which had a little more punch in the aroma department, but if you like the smell of coconut (or at least I think it was coconut, it might have been pantyhose, I always get those two mixed up), then you'll love the cheesecake flavor. Also? This stuff is even better than that Chicken Poop Lip Junk that I mentioned last year.

After seeking therapy over my childhood traumas surrounding bath tubs (my grandfather died in a tragic accident when he and I raced in the 1st Annual Downhill Bathtub Race of 1977 at the Cliffs of Dover), I decided it was time to get right back on that horse. Albeit thirty years later.

And while we're on the subject of bath issues, I'm afraid to take a bath alone. I want my privacy, but if I slip in the tub, I don't want one of my neighbors breaking down the door wondering what that awful smell is and discovering my naked, partially decayed body in the bathroom. How embarrassing. And what about when the cops arrive...

"What's that smell?" Cop #1 would ask.

Cop #2 would plug his nose, "Rotting corpse?"

"No," Cop #1 would say, sniffing the air like a mouse, "I believe that's mocha mint."

Anyway, as I stepped into the bathroom to prepare a nice hot bath, I discovered a spider on the wall - Eek!  How am I supposed to relax in the aroma of Creamy Mocha Mint Latte knowing one of Charlotte's cousins is hanging around waiting for me to fall asleep open-mouthed in the tub? And why is it that spiders only seem to appear AFTER you've taken off all your clothes?

So I hairsprayed the little guy to death.

I brought a book in with me, thinking that I would get bored just laying there in the tub, doing nothing, staring at the tiles, mentally developing my ToDo list, calculating how many more moving boxes I'd have to buy, what I plan to donate to Goodwill, which stuff is going to Sacramento with me, how will I find a mover to move just a few large things 400 miles, finding a handyman to fix all the broken stuff, researching for a property management company... you know, normal every day stuff.

I climbed into the salt-infused bath and breathed. I closed my eyes and took in the minty mocha aroma. Thirty minutes later, with the water cooled, the book untouched, and the ToDolist uncontemplated, I emerged a new woman, totally relaxed. After drying off, I felt my skin. It was so smooth, not like after lotion, but something else. Needless to say, I couldn't stop touching myself (or is that not needless to say?)

Also? The thing I like about the bag for these bath salts is that it's resealable. I don't know, maybe it's just me, but I love things that are resealable. They make my day, that's how much they mean to me.

I've never done a home facial mask thing and had no idea what to expect, but all I had to do was mix a teaspoon of water with a teaspoon of this green powdery stuff and smack it across my face for a few minutes.

Oh! And take a picture, of course:

 I see this picture and think Halloween. Or Viet Nam.

But, I gotta say, after I rinsed off and dried, I kept feeling my face all night because it was smooth and tight and clean.

So, thanks for the stuff, Sheila, and if the rest of you are curious about all of her products at Aventine Hill Bath Emporium, check it out!

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a bath. And kill a bug.

Free Wink: Hostage Crisis Update

Wink has finally been returned to her rightful owner. And let me just be Paul Harvey for a second and give you the rest of the story of how this egregious travesty went down:

Wink was discovered just a couple of hours after she got out of her yard. Animal control picked her up and called Save-A-Mutt. Why? Because they are listed as the primary owners on her LoJack chip thingy and refused upon adoption to have it otherwise. It's been four years and they still won't transfer primary ownership to the actual owner.

For unknown, unjustified, and undocumented reasons the people at Save-A-Mutt kept Wink and accused the owner, my friend, of neglect and improper care. They claimed she was matted and dirty when they got her. They claimed to have taken her to a vet who said she had gingivitis and an ear infection. However when pressed for pictures or documentation to prove these allegations, they were unable to do so. Yet, they refused to return Wink to her rightful owner.

Initially they said they would find a more suitable home, but then lawyers got involved and seven long non-Wink weeks went by before a bitter and reluctant Save-A-Mutt rep agreed to return Wink TO HER RIGHTFUL OWNER. But...she had a list of demands including but not limited to:

1. Wink must see a vet at least once a year.   (She already does.)

2. She must be groomed at least every other month. (She already does. In fact, she missed her last 6-week appointment and numerous bath appointments because Save-A-Mutt held her hostage FOR SEVEN WEEKS)

3.  Save-A-Mutt must be allowed to inspect and check on Wink after one year to ensure she is being properly taken care of. If they believe Wink is being neglected, they have the right to take her away.


I don't know what misguided, low-self-esteem, overcompensating, bitterness issues these people have, but to use my friend as a scapegoat was hateful and hurtful. And makes me want to say mean things. As I understand it, it was really just one person who was causing all the trouble. 


So if you want to "sick your dogs" on someone, or give them a piece of your mind, you can contact them at the email address on their website.  WHICH SUCKS BY THE WAY. I'm just saying.

They Prefer To Be Called "Little Bugs"

Yes, we went to Hawaii last month, but that was for my Dad who walks real slow, is virtually blind from diabetes, and masticates for a minimum of a hundred minutes at each meal. And then has the audacity to complain (jokingly... sort of..) about how there wasn't enough food.

I left Hawaii after ten days of that, craving an ocean view room where I could hang out on the lanai all day and watch for whales. Where we could jump into the car, grab a bite to eat, and pay an outrageous amount of money for a meal. Did I also mention that my Dad is cheap and refused to pay more than $10 for a cheeseburger? The deal was, he would pay for lunch and we would pay for dinner. Of course, he never balked at the bazillion dollar steak and seafood dinners that we paid for, but if anybody wanted $11.95 for a burger, they could go jump in the lake.

So anyway, this sequel to Hawaii was our anniversary vacation that started out as a trip to New York and moved quickly westward back to the volcanoes in the Pacific. We reserved an ocean front condo, first class plane tickets, the works. It was just my husband and me. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?

Well, obviously I wouldn't be standing here telling you anything if it was without one epic fail or another. You would have said, "So how's your trip?" and I would have said, "Fine" and that would have been the end of it.

But no. I'm here to tell you, we check into our room and the landlord has an urgent message for us to call her. She proceeds to tell me that the pond down the way was infested with midges (little mosquito-looking things without stingers) and she thought the first wave that ended 2 days prior was it, but now there's this new wave, and if we didn't want to stay there she would understand and she was going to call me earlier but she thought it was over and we could think about it and let her know. Oh, and there's a bottle of wine in the fridge and a Shop-Vac on the lanai.

Because midges, apparently, are hard on vacuum cleaners.

At first the midges didn't look like they'd be a big problem. But they had just vacuumed (er, Shop-vacked) the whole place down before we showed up. We decided to give it one night and see.

The next morning, it was obvious that you couldn't very well suck up a million midges and be done with it...

 

It was also clear that midges are hard-core partiers who drink too much, pass out at whatever midge bar they're inebriating themselves, and leave the mess for everyone else to clean up...

We didn't dare lounge on the lanai. Walking to our car called for full head-to-toe net protection, which we had failed to pack. Did I also mention that the pool was closed for renovation, and the tennis courts were currently being used as a parking lot?

I realize it's a quirk of mine, but I'd rather not inhale seven midges with each breath I take. And yes, everyone needs a plague now and again to strengthen their character and all, but I'd rather enjoy it for free.

So we drove all over the island looking for alternate accommodations - miles and miles away from those midges and their parents and their parents' parents.

We went north, young man. And we found a place that was cheaper, bigger and better. This place is perfect. Well, almost perfect. I mean, the sunset view from our lanai is beautiful, although the ocean tends to list a little...

and there is the occasional sea monster...

But you can't have everything, and when God takes a whiz in the morning, it doesn't look half bad...

 

 

Goat Thing of the Day

Two bucks duke it out....or do they...? Ask Priscilla!

The Thing That Wouldn't Die

This past weekend, the blogosphere was resplendent with horror stories. Creatures everywhere invaded our homes.

Maggie Dammit had bats in her belfry.
Sprite's Keeper wrote a letter to the spider in her house.
JD at I Do Things has a mouse in the house. Somewhere. Maybe under the refrigerator.
Chat Blanc has a wasp.

Today I present a 46 second video that exemplifies my own difficulty in murdering a cockroach a few days ago.




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If you're in need of a new addiction, try the Nanny Goats In Panties Torture Ride and Fun Park.

There's Never a Hero Around When you Need One

It was midnight in Los Angeles. Time to hit the hay. Man, was I sleepy. I was just about to descend the stairs when I realized I was eye-level with Franz Kafka's main character in The Metamorphosis clinging to the stairwell ceiling. It was a monster, I tell you!

My first thought was OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD HE'S A MONSTER!!!!! In fact, I think my face resembled that spill stain on Significant Snail's stove the other day.

My second thought was, "Where is my camera? Because when I blog about this adventure I'm about to dive into, I'm gonna need a picture!"

The problem? The monster was hanging between me and my camera, and I wasn't about to walk underneath that behemoth, have it fall on my head and get tangled up in my hair. I'd have screamed like a banshee (that simile in honor of Authoring Auctioneer's post about the correct usage of "like"), rudely disturbing my sleeping roommate.

See, if this were in Sacramento, I could scream for help and my husband would ride in on his white horse and slay the dragon with his mad lancing skillz. However, this was not Sacramento and the last time I called upon a roommate in L.A., it resulted in two chickens running around the house screaming with the heebie jeebies and "You do it!", "No! You do it!". That, plus my guilt over waking up someone who had to get up at 4am overpowered (just barely) my fear of having to do the deed myself.

My squirm count escalated as I strategized how I was going to kill this thing. And I HAD to kill it (sorry, Scratch Bags, I know how you don't like to kill anything, including bugs). If I merely chased it off somewhere, I would never NEVER get to sleep.

I found some Raid underneath the sink and decided I would spray it to death. It was too big for me to crush with a shoe. Let me emphasize that it was too big for ME to crush with a shoe. I was getting more and more creeped out by the minute and when that happens, I have to be further and further away from it as I do damage. Therefore, it is essential that I kill it ASAP. Otherwise there is a turning point at which I am completely immobilized into a sweaty, shaking and useless mess. I would stand there paralyzed while peeing on the carpet and requiring some sort of mental hospitalization. So the stress of THAT thought is enough to motivate me to kill.

I sprayed at Satan on the ceiling, filling the house with noxious fumes, certain the smell would choke my roommate out of his slumber. The monster clicked across the stairwell ceiling and I continued to spray (PSSSSSssss!). He crawled along the carpet and down the hallway (PSSSSSSsss!). He slipped in between some boxes at the end of the hallway. (PSS- - ) I stopped, and listened to him shuffle around between the boxes. It sounded like a rat crunching on peanut shells. I wanted him to come out. I needed him to come out. My sole purpose at that moment was to end this evil being's life.

He emerged from the boxes and crawled toward me on the carpet. I walked backwards (PSSSSsssss!) He turned around and crawled away from me (PSSSssss!). He made a right turn into the bathroom and I followed him as he crawled along the bottom of the sink cabinet (PPPSSSsss!) and skittered along the side of the cabinet, disappearing behind the toilet.

Well, now what? By now I'm gagging on poisonous fumes. I walked into the bathroom, scrunching up my toes so he couldn't get his mealy armor in between them in case he came scurrying out in a surprise attack. Several times I walked in, toes curled, and backed out, too afraid to check behind the toilet. Or I'd take one step in and bend over to peek around the bathroom cabinet and pull back while wincing from the carpet-soaked Raid fumes in the hallway.

I finally made the leap and peered around the toilet bowl to see the monster on his back with his legs flailing around. How does that happen? I mean he was upright a minute before. How does he wind up on his back? Does he do the dramatic swoon like Daffy Duck whose just been shot, twirling around, saying "Ugh, you got me! Goodbye cruel world!" Why wouldn't he just stop crawling? What's with the flip and the theatrics? Drama queen.

(PSSSSSssssssss!) He wouldn't stop flailing. I had to figure out the next step of Operation Monster Reduction. What would I do if this guy finally petered out? And if you think for one minute I could pick him up with a paper towel WITH MY BARE HANDS you are sadly mistaken, fella. I don't care that I wouldn't actually be touching him with my bare hands. I had too much time to think about his crunchiness and would therefore require a shovel.

Only I don't have a shovel. It's a condo for Chrissakes, what would I be doing with a shovel? Oh, killing bugs, yes that's very funny. You sure are quite the comedian when you want to be. In any case, I don't have any place to put a shovel. But never mind that, there's a squirrelly cockroach in the bathroom right now and I need to find something to kill him and transport him out of the house because there is NO WAY I'm going to throw him in the trash. Since he's clearly not dying anytime soon, I can't risk throwing him into what would essentially be a life-giving force, a veritable pantry for him to nosh on overnight, gaining back his strength and in perfect cartoon likeness, pop back to his normal body fullness and track me down while I slept and crawl all over me and in and out of my orifices. Ick and Shudder!

So I grab the Swiffer, march back into the bathroom and start pounding him with the flat bottom of the tool. (See Orion? The Swiffer is awesome!) He keeps wiggling his legs and I keep pounding the floor which is right over my sleeping roommate's bedroom, although he hasn't managed to wake up during this whole ordeal.

After several stampings, the monster appears to be succumbing to my shock and awe. Only one or two legs remaining wiggling. OK, now I had to find something to scoop him up with. Again, wishing I had a shovel right now. I dug around the garbage (something I bet the monster wished he could have done as a sort of death row last meal kind of thing). In my bag for recycling, I found some broken down soda boxes, but for me a 14-inch-long piece of paper didn't put the monster far enough away from my hand. What if he snapped out of it one last time to land me a death blow, like in the movies. See? I told you I get all freaked out the longer it takes. I lose all irrationality.

I settle on a long-handled broom and dustpan, brush the nearly dead thing into the pan and carry him straight out in front of me (my arms aren't long enough, but they'll have to do). I open the sliding glass door and hurl him out into the abyss three stories below. I apologize for not having my wits about me to take a picture of the carcass for your viewing pleasure, but here is an unreasonable facsimile:

I know! I told you he was big!

Bugs: They're Not Just For Breakfast Anymore

We have a couple of Tarmac strips in our little town called Sacramento International Airport, although the "International" part of it may as well have quotes around it. OK, I guess there is a flight to Guadalajara now and again. Not that I have anything against Guadalajara - I mean, who doesn't want to order a drink whose Spanish name translates to Happy Buttocks? (These drinks are served at Los Famosos Equipales. But that's not why I called you here today.



I walk through this "international" airport a few times a month and the Starbucks had a serious fly problem. I apologize in advance for not taking a picture of the large poster made of flypaper, but I promise you, it was gross. But alas, it's gone.



Recently they installed these lights on the walls...

This coincided with the fact that there were no flies. Where could they be? I reached up with my camera and aimed down into the top of the light... 

For further enjoyment, you can click on the picture to enlarge.



Mmmmmm.  Kinda makes you want a Venti Mocha Flypachino about now, doesn't it?





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...And the answer to the trivia question the other day about where the Nanny Goats In Panties banner picture was taken:  Fremont, California. In Coyote Hills Park, near the San Francisco Bay.

Dear Termite: Congrats on that Bug Of The Year Award

Doesn't it seem like only yesterday when I was showing you all the bugs I had in the house?

Hey, how many of you remember this picture from six months ago?





Yeah, that was when it was our turn to be the neighborhood pariah, kinda like in the 70s when your kid got lice or he came out of the closet: "Don't go near him, Timmy!" Other mothers slinked past you, clutching their own children and staring down their noses with disgust because it would NEVER happen to THEM.

So anyway, my condo building in L.A. got gassed in January. And we paid a bazillion dollars for a SIX year warranty. Which was actually kinda cool because it also killed all the other dang bugs hanging out and exhibiting themselves like flashers every couple of days.

But then LAST WEEK, one of the neighbors in our five-unit building found termites coming out of a pipe in her ceiling, and promptly called Terminix. They came out and said something along the lines of:

"Oh, those are subterRAINian termites. We treated you for the OTHER kind of termites in January. Yeah, THESE termites are different. And for half a bazillion dollars (a discount, since we were just here in January) we can come out and take care of these NEW and DIFFERENT little critters. And for just a few hundred dollars more, you can get the FOUR year warranty, blah, blah, blah..."

and THAT ladies and germs, is how they get you.

Tune in next season when Terminix discovers a new species: the STRATOSPHERE termites.


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Nanny Goats would like to thank Charlene over at So, What You're Saying Is... for adding NGIP to her blog roll. She's a fellow Humor-Blogs member (and a high school drama teacher) who taught me that Loonie is a Canadian dollar, which as you know, is equivalent to about 14 of our American dollars.

And speaking of Humor-Blogs, please click on this Humor-Blogs link to check our current ranking. A click is a vote for Nanny Goats!

Giant Metamorphosis

I was nearly mauled by this monster yesterday while deforesting the back forty:

(Click on pics to enlarge, unless you scare easily.)

Those logs he towers over may look like mere pine needles...


But do not be fooled by the optical illu- ... oh wait. Those are just pine needles.



But that would mean that this thing is ...less than half an inch.

huh.

Well, now I feel silly for even bringing that up.


And speaking of nonsequitors, Nanny Goats In Panties would like to thank you all for kindly clicking on that Top25 logo on the left each visit. It's keeping NGIP at Number 3!

And speaking of websites that cater to midlifers, a big shout out to Allison over at WomenBloom and a heartfelt Thank You for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to the blog roll on the Ask Allison Blog, as well as a mention in WomenBloom's latest newsletter! Thank you , Thank you, Thank you! WomenBloom inspires and supports women to make the most of midlife, so check it out!

It's a Bug's Death

By now you're probably wondering, "Hey whatever happened to that Termite Countdown?" Well look no further because we are now in Vikane Country!

I rather like the sound of that. I think I will consider Vikane Country as the title of my next novel.

Bug Month

To those of you who have been pestering me for the next installment of the soap opera lovingly referred by cult fans as "General Waspital", I heartily say: "Alright already! Keep your pants on."

After four weeks of watching paint dry, I mean, the wasps cling to the wall of my L.A. condo, unmoving, hibernating, mating, whatever, I made the call to our exterminator to remove the offending squatters. Now, our building has some sort of coverage with them, since we have an ongoing monthly service, where they will come inside and spray at no cost if we find things like silverfish, spiders, etc. And that's right...wasps aren't covered.

"You know," the exterminator drawled to me over the phone, "they're probably just dying, you could just smack them with a broom and save yourself some money."

Yeah, and I could probably do the same thing to a cop after a high speed chase that resulted in my running out of gas and slamming into a pole after accumulating 20 police units and a couple of helicopters: just get out of my car and smack him with a broom. WAS HE KIDDING????

Why should I trust some guy who isn't there to see these menacing insects positioned over me in my living room, taunting me, probably making fun of my eating habits in front of the television (Netflix, anyone?) What about all those societal influences that do nothing but teach us that wasps are mean and stinging and nasty and swarming and stinging and never NEVER NEVER swat at them? What the hell was wrong with this guy? He was clearly high on bug spray vapors and stung to the point of immunity, because I didn't care if it cost $95.00 for him to come over with his own broom. I just wanted somebody else to take the risk of getting stung while I hid in the bathroom. I wanted a guarantee that in February when those little suckers woke up from their dreams, they wouldn't be in my house ready to party.

So this guy comes over with a Webster in his hand (you know that thing with a long pole and a spherical fluff of bristles on the end that is used to get spider webs out of corners, hence the name Webster?) and a white can of stuff hanging from his holster. I will call him Pedro, at the risk of racial profiling, but also for expediency. Pedro expands the purple dandelion of the Webster and reaches up the 20 or so feet to the window where Stuart and Stan (the Sting brothers) are hanging out.

Pedro tries to mush them with no success, but they fall gently from the wall into the lair of the mighty Webster. As he lowers the end of the Webster, the wasps seem to slowly flounder in and around the bristles as if to say, "Oh I'm soooo sleepy, I just can't be bothered with all this", and I run over there (at this point, I figure if they were going to attack, it would have happened already) and open the sliding glass door. Pedro moves the Webster outside where Stuart slips out of it, hits the balcony floor, and rolls off the edge, falling to his death for all I know. It's like Pedro is the Pied Piper of wasps. Meanwhile, Stan lazily falls into the door track where Pedro sprays the crap out of him. Ninety-five dollars later, Pedro sends me out of the house and comes out 5 minutes later having fogged the 2nd level of my condo and tells me not to return for 4 hours.

Tune in next episode entitled 'Bug Year', when we learn about the trials and tribulations of fumigating your abode with a tent and some termite spray. Scenes will be shot sometime in January with post production and a release date to follow, writer's strike be damned.

Oh yeah, did I mention we have termites?

Bug Week

It's Bug Week here at Nanny Goats in Panties. And we are celebrating it with a pictorial look at what you can find in your own home. Earlier I told you a little story about crickets but, due to an adaptor issue, was unable to show you a picture of the little creature until now:




The very next day, I had the fortune to find another one on the same set of stairs.

Feeling a little like Noah, I encountered two more bugs in my living room:



The problem here is that they are at the top of my 2-story wall. I discovered them on Wednesday. But as it turns out, I happened to capture them on film while shooting the fierce winds on the previous Saturday, so they have now been there, not moving, for at least a week! Googling many images on the web and then cofirming with my NorCal bug ID Support Group, they seem to be wasps.

Oh Goody.

Jiminy's Dead, RIP

I have a cricket. His name is Charles. Actually I'd never named him before today, but for the purposes of this post, I thought I'd engage the reader more on this mundane story by giving him a name.

Charles and I have been living together for at least 5 years, although we have separate beds. Mine is on the first floor and Charles sleeps in his bed somewhere in the ventilation system on the third floor. I've been listening to his incessant chirping since the day he moved in.

Last night I thought I'd killed him, when I Black Flagged the shit out of a jumpy little critter banging himself against the stairs and the carpet. I thought it might have been a cockroach until he started jumping around like a cricket.

I took a picture of him clinging to the side of stair #5, gasping for air, but only sucking in miniature nerve gas, on the verge of death, in the hopes of sending it to MMP in the NorCal office for ID confirmation. But I forgot my little adapter thingy that takes those little data cards and plugs into a USB port, whatever they're called - see? -I don't know the name of anything. Anyway, I found a reasonable facsimile. This is what he looked like prior to kicking the cricket bucket:

Except his antennae went up and back away from his head, rather than jutting forward.

(Ewww, now I'm all creeped out after Googling cricket pics.)

Alas, poor Charles, I knew him well. And now he's been scooped off the poison-soaked carpet. That's right, I chucked Chuck like yesterday's trash.

The question is, who's the new guy who took over his post and began chirping today in the 3rd floor ventilation system? And what am I going to name him? And what the hell is the life span of a frickin' cricket?