No morning thanks--earwigs

You can't make a silk purse out of a pig's ear, nor put pink ribbons on wooden shoes--that's well established. But neither can you accessorize your designer bathroom with a plain old rubber plunger. That you can't, however, doesn't mean that you don't occasionally really, really need one--and fast. Look, I've come to believe in the moral character of those folks who leave their plungers out in the open and thus readily available, because those people are willing to admit to reality. Most of us hide them and thus make them inaccessible. Which is to say almost useless.

Here's my theory. If a you're a really Dutch Reformed, your plunger is not in the closet because if cleanliness is next to Godliness, then beauty is only a luxury. Spot a plunger in a bathroom--your host is a Calvinist.

It's probably gauche for me to talk about plungers, but I need to break the ice of shallow discreetness because this morning I'm coming out of the closet, finally, because they are--these teeny-weeny, multi-legged, pincher-bedecked monsters that have made our lives miserable for the last couple weeks. They're earwigs, and they have nothing to do with your ears but a great deal to do with your mental health--and moral and spiritual, for that matter. Simply stated, we're going nuts.

They're everywhere. They've turned my life into a Hitchcock movie. I don't think I've ever even seen a cockroach and I know millions of people are scarred forever by their sudden appearances in silverware drawers, but this hellish brood of miniature horrors are enough to send me to a padded room.

They're greased lightning, and even an iron-like grip doesn't seem to kill 'em. About the only thing you can do is flush their crunchy selves down the toilet. I hate 'em. I know I'm supposed to love all of God's creatures, but earwigs aren't his creation. They're of the Devil, they're Satan's brood, his offspring, and sometimes I think they're lurking, as he is, in every dark corner of this old house.

Not everyone in town has them. Out in the burbs, where there are fewer shade trees or something, they make only token appearances. Here in the inner city, they're an infestation. Figures.

And I'm not the only one coming out of the closet. In polite conversation between cultured people with advanced educational degrees, they come up as matters of ordinary conversation. Some lines have been crossed--that's how bad it is. A couple weeks ago, our preacher mentioned them twice, once for prayer, in fact. Of course, he lives mid-town.

A biologist friend claims we're just going to have to put up with them for another year because they live, eat, and have their horrifying being in three-year infestations. I don't think I can imagine grasshoppers this numerous, but at least I have a sense of what left all those white settlers climbing the walls. Yesterday, there was one in my cashews. Sealed top. I swear.

I love killing them, confident the Lord is pardoning my wrath. I sing when they go swirling down the toilet. I kick them to death with my heel, swat them dead with my sandals, shoot them and their beloved corners with deadly poisons, as if the can is a Colt .45. I show no mercy, but they keep coming back, they keep coming back, keep coming back.

They're here. They're everywhere.

One of these days I'll have killed so many I'll need a plunger.

I know where it is. I swear.