Don't bug me, I'm busy

I don’t usually like bugs, but I’ve had a few the last few months that really didn’t bother me. They didn’t bite, didn’t sting, and didn’t make noise when I was trying to sleep. Harmless.

I’d noticed a few of the little tiny “butterflies” back in the summer I really didn’t notice them until I was watching television at night and one would flitter around the television screen or the lamp shade. I’d slapped a few out of the air, leaving an “ashy” mark on my hand or the screen. Harmless. 

Occasionally, I’ve had a ladybug or two. They are such cute little creatures that I didn’t mind scooping them up and putting them out. The word on the street is that they are helpful, eating aphids and such, so I just celebrated them. As the cold weather set in, their appearances were rarer and when I did see one, he (she) was usually 6-feet in the air, dried up on the windowsill. 

The little butterflies hung around. When my family came at Christmas, they noticed them. By now, there were a few more of them. Some of them rested on the pantry doors, where I tried to nonchalantly “dust” them away. “Those aren’t butterflies, Mother.” She referred to them as moths, a rather low-sounding moniker. They weren’t hiding in the closets, nibbling on old wool coats. They were just flitting around, innocently bumping into my visitors. Zuckey, the dachshund, and I were not concerned. 

I guess it’s like any other nuisance. We don’t really notice the dust on the piano, the tissue beside the wastebasket, or the cobweb stretching from lampshade to the corner. We don’t notice it until company comes, the preacher comes to visit, or our grown children come for their yearly inspection. 

By this time, I was pretty sure what the problem was, but I waited until the inspectors had gone home before I tore into the pantry. Sure enough, I discovered the “butterfly barracks.” In the upper reaches of the pantry … to which I must climb … was a box of Bisquick. Sure enough, inside the box and on the shelf beside it was evidence of the landing strips and parade grounds where the bugs did their calisthenics and adolescent flirtations. 

I’m not sure when the Bisquick was bought. If I remember right, the last time I made pancakes George W Bush was in office. The box, with its loose waxpaper liner was pushed to the back of the shelf. Coffee containers, cake mixes, and bottles of olive oil, all of which were bought in bulk on sale, blocked the view. 

Of course, the creatures moved on to better housing. Some had formed their own villages in the chocolate brownie mix. Some had feasted on the corn starch. I initiated a shock and awe attack and dumped everything in the pantry which had not been purchased during the last three months. I didn’t check the “sell-by” dates. At one point, I looked a lot like Snow White, surrounded by the birds. As I stood on my kitchen stool, scooping out the suspect packaging, my little friends put on quite a show.

Under cover of darkness, I exiled my “friends” to the dumpster. Since that night, I’ve seen a few little “butterflies,” but they look nervous. I tried to explain to them that their mamas and daddies had moved on. You’d think they would notice the dead ladybugs on the windowsills and the ashy marks on the pantry doors and try to escape.