megfowler.com

I don’t like butterflies.

If you read my site very often, you know this is painfully true.

No, I don’t think they’re graceful and pretty. I think they look like hairy men in frilly dresses. Did I mention they’re hairy?

But moths?

WORSE.

Sure, they’re generally smaller, unless you live in a jungle somewhere, and then all I can do is ask you, Why?

Sure, they have nice-ish wings, if you like batik or early 70’s upholstery.

But the hairy and ugly factor? MAXIMUM.

We’ve been plagued by (the normal) Vancouver summer moth crop around our home, the presence of which indoors is exacerbated by our tendency to leave the deck door open unless we’re sleeping or a swarm of killer bees is headed for the window.

Either one, really.

The thing is, I think they’re getting bigger, these moths. I can’t decide whether or not to blame global warming or steroids in milk or the revenge of nature on mankind for all-wheel-drive vehicles, but there you have it.

Big moths. Big, nasty moths.

On our walls. On our ceilings. Hiding in curtain folds, ready to spring into action when we turn on a light.

See Moth bounce off the light! Bounce, Moth, bounce!

See Moth make a horrible clicking noise that causes my skin to crawl! See him singe his wings! See him die in a gnarly heap on the coffee table!

Ewwww.

Damn moths. I don’t like ‘em. I don’t want ‘em. I’m done with ‘em.

Especially in cars.

Today, I commuted to work with my lovely roommate. My lovely roommate doesn’t usually have to drive too far to get to work (I am the commuter of our hetero lifemate family unit), but today she had a course away from her branch, so we decided to make the trip together.

This is usually really fun. We stop to get coffee, we sing along with the radio, we talk about how tired we are… magic!

Unfortunately, less than five minutes into our trip today, Catherine turned, looked at me, and screamed.

AHHHHHH!

I was a little taken aback (though not totally unaccustomed to this behavior) but soon saw the genesis of her horror when a moth flew from my side of the car to her head.

Then we both screamed.

AHHHHHH!

Then it landed on the gas guage.

AHHHHHH!

Catherine yelled at me to hand her a shoe that was sitting in my footwell, but soon followed it up with a more anguished cry.

“YOUR ARMS ARE TOO SHORT!”

AHHHHHH!

Indeed, it was true. I was flopping around like a penguin trying to reach her shoe, until finally she lunged to grab it.

The moth was now sitting coyly on the speedometer like he was some sort of fellow commuter named Darryl who wore Dockers, listened to Rush, and liked to play online poker until the wee hours.

But he would soon know how tragically unwelcome he was on the voyage.

Suddenly, Catherine realized that she couldn’t get into the small space beyond her steering wheel with a shoe.

AHHHHHHH!

Wait, though! There was a sock inside the shoe that would do the trick. And do the trick it did.

Lo, the moth died.

And lo, he left a mess all over the sock that killed him.

AHHHHHHH!

Gross.

Safe to say, we really needed our coffees once we got them.

But not as much as Darryl.