Catching Up

♦

After almost three weeks of Clear, Calm Mind, weeks when I made art with quiet joy and dug into the second draft of my book about being bipolar, weeks when decisions made themselves; after weeks when the Dark Times of last autumn faded, the inevitable shift came.

First, just a melancholia set in as I  watched the last season of Northern Exposure (like getting weepy over Hallmark commercials).  Mopping up with Kleenex, I would have called myself hormonal if I still had any Girl Parts.  But after the final episode, I felt bereft.  I’d binge-watched all six seasons of the show, and now it was over.  I have a bad feeling about this, my Inner Han Solo muttered.

Later that day, I shut down during therapy.  We hit something big, and it blew all the circuits.  My therapist talked and all I could hear was the teacher from the Peanuts cartoons (Wah-wah-wah).

Yesterday I met my friend at the theater to see LaLa Land and cried through the whole thing.  Not that I was paying attention to what was on the screen.

It takes me a bit to catch up with the shift.  I have to find a little spot of compassion and mindfulness where I can change gears.  What do I need?  What do I have to take care of and what can wait?  I will stay home today and do art at my table instead of going to church and the Writing as a Spiritual Practice group that I love.  I can make this decision without guilt or self-loathing.  It’s what needs to be today.

Tomorrow I will focus on preparing my apartment for the new bed-bug prevention regiment.  There’s a lot to do—vacuum, get everything off the floor, pull the furniture away from the walls.  I don’t quite understand what will be done, some kind of silicon mist, so I need to get as much stuff under cover as I can.  Then, on Tuesday, the cats and I will camp out at friends all day while this procedure takes place.  I’m not sure what kind of clean-up will be required once we get back.  All I know is that I can’t vacuum for three days.

Stuff like this is stressful on my best day.  I had found a rhythm with the quarterly bug-sniffing dog’s visits, but I guess Radar wasn’t as accurate as advertised.  Now management has decided on this annual preventative hoo-haw instead.  It’s so disruptive and worrisome.

So, I breathe and try to turn my thinking.  I don’t have bedbugs, but if my neighbors do, I’m at risk.  So this is a good thing.  Proactive.  And only once a year.  I can do this.

And if it’s all I do this week, it will be enough.

Radar Day

Every three months the apartments in our complex get inspected for bedbugs.  We had an infestation a few years ago (remember when the varmints were everywhere?)  Since then regular inspections became mandatory.  While I haven’t had any creepy crawlies since the first outbreak, I know if an apartment next to mine becomes infested, I’m at risk.  So, I’m glad to get the notice.  Not because I’m worried about parasites.  Oh, no.  I’m thrilled because I know Radar is coming.

Eau de Stink Bug

Pest control companies train beagles to sniff out bedbugs.  They have a distinct odor.  Think back to your wayward youth.  If you ever smashed a boxelder bug, you’ll remember the stink.  I’ve been told bedbugs have a more refined bouquet, but similar.  It takes a nose of distinction and refinement to tell the difference.

These canine prima donnas require man-servants and Garbo-esque privacy in order to perform.  Soaps, chemicals and food must be sequestered.  Pets and their lowly accoutrements (food, litter boxes, doggie chews) must vacate the premises at least an hour before the Star’s arrival.  The only human allowed in the apartment with the Super Sniffer is his agent.  Tenants may wait outside at a discrete distance, behind queue barricades and ropes.

The cats and I camp out in my car—close enough to get a good look, but far enough away to avoid the heavy-handed security squad.  Since we never know when Radar will make his appearance (how can a hound of such stature be held to a timetable?) we have missed him on occasion.  Especially in the winter when we’re forced to keep the car warm by driving around the block.  And since Henry gets car sick, the Winter Radar Watch requires paper towels and baby wipes as well as the litter box.  Small price to pay for a gander at the infamous pup.

Today provided perfect Radar-Watching weather.  We nabbed front-row seats across from our front door.  As you can see, Henry is in the throes of fan-girling at the thought of catching a glimpse.  This is Henry at his most excited.

Emmett, on the other hand, preferred to guard our luggage.  He understood how dangerous hoards of fans could be—and he already had Radar’s paw print.  *sniff*   Plus, the treats were in one of those bags, and if Henry wasn’t going to puke on this outing, there was a good chance the human would fall for some sad eyes and piteous mewling.  Emmett knows how to work a room.

 

Tension mounted as we waited.  First a leaf flew in from the moon roof.  Then, a snicker doodle, or hershey’s terrier, or one of those yappy fluff balls set to howling at the grass in his yard.  Henry, however, remained vigilant and undeterred.

Our nerves at the point of snapping, we spotted the cavalcade of white and red Preferred Pest Control vans (exactly like these at https://www.369bugs.com/pest-control/) turning onto our street.  Our street!

Within moments, the entourage exited their vehicles, fingers pressed to their wireless headsets, in communication with Radar’s helicopter film crew.

And then… there he was!  Super Schnoz!  The Scourge of Cimex lectularius! Security hustled Radar into the building while we gawped.  Only luck and muscle spasms caused my camera to fire in time.

And just like that—it was all over.  How does one recover from a brush with greatness?  From the image of celebrity burned onto one’s retinas?

I guess, the way most fans do—with a sigh and a hearty deposit in the litter box.