Sweep Sweep. Chirp Chirp. Taunt Taunt.

I am not an individual who particularly loves the outdoors. I don't enjoy sweating, I don't particularly crave physical exertion, and I am not a big fan of bugs. Yes, I know, I would have made a poorly equipped and probably very cranky pioneer woman.

But this post isn't about how lame I would have been in another life. It's about bugs. More specifically, crickets. I kind of loathe them. And they flourish here. Which is why I was very sad when we had to cancel our pest control two summers ago because it's just not in the budget. Yes, pest elimination should be on the list of priorities right after groceries and car payment, but I haven't quite figured out how to squeeze it in. Sigh.

Back to the crickets. My hatred of them doesn't actually have so much to do with the squeamish factor as you might think. Don't get me wrong, I shudder at the sight of a lone cricket leg with the best of them, but I won't hesitate to squish or chase or yell when the need arises. (Think: Modern Family, Pigeon Episode). More than anything, my disdain stems from the fact that they are loud and annoying and poop all over the place. And, unfortunately, they think that my front porch is a very desirable vacation spot; a sort of all-inclusive, Sandals Laveen, if you will.

I am pretty sure that the local crickets have it in for me. I was outside this morning, sweeping cricket poo off the porch for the tenth time this week, and I was almost finished when I heard it: a single cricket chirping.

Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp. Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp.

I looked around but saw nothing. (Nothing, that is, except for dead Uncle Cricket a few feet away, whose untimely death I was not actually responsible for.) Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp. I kept hearing it, but I couldn't see it. Not anywhere. As soon as I got close to where I thought it was, it would stop. Then it would start up again as soon as I stepped away...like a demented game of hot and cold put on by some Cricket Mob Boss who was getting back at me for trying to close down The Porch Resort. Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp. Sweep. Chirp. Sweep. Chirp.

Well, I examined every crevice and corner in sight, but I never found that elusive little bugger. I swear he was hiding in the stucco, or perched on top of the doorway, laughing hysterically at the way that I was desperately craning my neck and sticking my ear to the wall.

Sweep. Chirp. Taunt. Sweep. Chirp. Taunt.

I'll have the last laugh, though, little friend. Just wait until I call the Health Department and they see that there is cricket poo in the resort kitchen. Then you'll be shut down for good. And I will go back to happily hating you from a distance.