I'm a nice North Eastern Yankee American girl decently raised, so it really isn't too much of a shock that I don't care for Mother Nature's pets. Sure there are bugs and insects way up there in Yankeeland, but there is also very nice, healthy winter to kill off the really large and bizarre bugs. Ticks, flies and mosquitoes were really the extent of my daring insect adventures. My poor father is such a rabid bug lover that he used to honestly suffer and lament about where he went wrong with my upbringing. How could he, a man who describes June Bugs as (gulp) pretty) raise a troglodyte bug racist.
Not me, I didn't wonder at all. I am perfectly content with my lack of warmth and compassion towards the bug community. "Speak Loudly and carry a big-ass can of Raid" was my motto. "Kill them all, let God sort them out"- I felt that had rather accurate ring to it and described my philosophy quite nicely. Moving to Texas and it's position far, far below the Snow Belt was a bit of an eye opener for me. I learned about Scorpions, Black Widows and of course to keep the exterminator's number on speed dial.
Of course now I live in Australia. A beautiful, magnificent country teeming with assorted fauna lining up to kill me viciously and slowly. This place must be Entomologists vision of Disney World. It would not shock me at all to see a tattoo on someone saying, "Jiminy is My Homeboy." Considering the buggers they have on tap here...I don't think I would even laugh.
Bugs here seem to fall into only two categories for my Australian friends. They're divided into either, 'Nah, those won't actually kill you" or "Too Right! That'll knock you down a bit!" - This last category is roughly translated to American English as "Run. Now. Run as fast as you can; sobbing will always be mocked but is still totally acceptable."
Keep all of this mind as you join me in my tale of this mornings adventures.. My tale is about me waking up with a tick in my arm. For honesty's sake I should admit that I wasn't aware fully of the little bugger until about ten-fifteen minutes after I got out of bed. I'm not what any reasonable person would refer to as a Morning Person. Life has to sort of forcefully jam itself into my skull before I can register it. That being said, even I tend to mentally swim to the surface when I notice a creature burrowing into my skin.
Since I am six plus years in on my Tour of Duty here in Down Under I realize immediately that this isn't a bad tick. Prior to landing here, realizing that there is a foreign body of icky proportions embedded in my flesh would have sent me running to the garage to hunt for a hacksaw to cut off my arm. This Jersey Girl is now knowledgeable about the tick world. For example, I know that there are several kind of ticks and the one digging for China in my arm is the basic, benign Grass Tick. I don't know if that's it's real name or not because I really don't care to Google a picture of this bad boy. I'll see him in my dreams for a while to come. It's what all my friends call it and that's good enough for me. These are good, hearty Aussie women who do not put down a wine glass and administer first aid for just any old bug. A Grass Tick is annoying but they don't actually kill you, they gently tell me as they refill their glasses.
Yes of course. How utterly juvenile of me.
Bearing this in mind, I did my part for bringing my Aussie sisterhood pride this morning. After realizing what was causing the annoying itchy, general Ychhh! feeling in my arm, I got dressed and came downstairs to deal with my unwanted guest. I did this sans tears, vomiting and a majority of my favorite expletives.
I admit though, that I was a weakling Yank and two years ago I insisted the doctor write me a script for serious tick killer cream. In my defense, at the time I had just been bitten by a diseased tick and got a nasty wound the size of my hand on my thigh and was almost hospitalized. The doctor chuckled a bit as she wrote it, saying, "Sure, you can have it but really...just a bit of fly spray on it will do you good."
Ha, ha, ha, Ahhhh no. This scaredy cat grew up in Lyme Disease Central and I'll be damned if I'll risk it to prove how tough I am. Fly spray for ticks? Sure, try that on another foreigner. This one wants the good stuff. Better living through Chemistry. This is not just a cute catch phrase, it's a damn meaning of life.
After I wake the kids and put the kettle on, I slavered the prescription goo on, remembering my first aid lessons that tell me that I have to wait for Senor Tick to backtrack out on his own, as removing him myself is bad. I made the girls lunches, and my tea, yelled again for kids to move it along and sat down to wait.
It took me about 30 seconds to remember that I am in fact, actually ME and that I am sitting at my kitchen table with a FREAKIN'...BUG...IN...MY...FREAKIN'...ARM!
Sadly, it was at this moment that my desire to be considered a real Australian spiraled rapidly down to the fiery pits of Hell. Admittedly, I brought shame to the house of my father by running screaming to the bathroom to dig out the tweezers and evict the beast with six legs.
Of course, what happened next is what everyone tells you will happen. You can't tweezer out the little bastard because only part of it is visible outside your skin. No matter what you can see on the outside there is this teeny tiny little head that's wedged under your flesh. The laws of Physics being the rat bags they are, laugh at you when you apply too much pressure on the wrong end. Pulling on the big end just left me severing the body and leaving the head behind under your skin.
I'm sure most of you remember the expression he/she just gets under your skin? You know why it's so descriptive? Because knowing that there is some sort of creature, no matter how dangerous or not, stuck underneath your epidermis is all you need to be driven completely out of your ever-loving mind.
To sum up....I now have 1/4 of a bug in my arm, encased in a rather unattractive, conspicuous, swollen lump and my girls are crying because NOW they know there are bugs in the house and they might get bitten. Honestly, I have no idea where the HELL they have been living the past six years. NOW they are worried? Seriously? Oh Good God. There are bugs everywhere here! I understand a little bit why my Aussie compatriots are not quick to offer sympathy.
The worst indignity of all? All my Aussie friends are going to laugh at the Crazy Yank who let herself be troubled by a bug that won't even kill you. Maybe I'll be in luck and this little guy will be sick like the last one and I'll be dead by pick up time. At least then there will be some sympathy.
Doubt it though. I'm sure in the end, someone will stand over my grave and bellow in between gulps of red wine, "I wonder if anyone ever told her about fly spray?"
