A hiatus of biblical proportion

Hi. Remember me? Let’s catch up, shall we?

Flood: You know how sometimes during your average, run-of-the-mill rainstorm, there’s a sudden-but-brief burst of torrential, sheet-of-water, holy-mackerel-it’s-really-coming-down-out-there rain that makes you stop and take notice until it passes? Yeah, well, that happened here the week before last … except, instead of passing after only a few seconds or minutes, it came down with that same degree of sustained ferocity for five days.

The psychotic amount of rain that fell resulted in the worst flooding the region has seen in 70 years. One family we know ended up with so much water in their basement that it rose high enough to destroy their furnace and electrical box. Yikes.

And so it is with tremendous relief that I can report that my basement remained dry as the proverbial bone. The symphony of sump pumps and parade of plumbing trucks that became the hallmark of our neighborhood in the days following the flood made me suddenly feel that our modest little Cape, complete with its cramped quarters and Lilliputian second floor, had transformed itself into an awe-inspiring fortress, and I now have a new love for both our home and the little hill upon which it sits.

(Worth viewing: flood photos, and more flood photos.)

Locusts: Well, not really. Moths and inchworms, actually. (I’m trying to stick with the biblical thing, OK? Work with me, people.)

In the late fall/early winter of 2004, during which time we were just settling into our house, I would sometimes look out the window at night and take note of the fact that there were a number of moths flying about. “That’s odd,” I thought to myself. “I don’t recall seeing moths flying about during the late fall/early winter of years past.” I didn’t dwell on it. They were moths, they were little, and they were outside, and so who gives a shit, right?

Almost exactly one year ago, during our first spring in our current home, we began to notice an alarming number of inchworms in our yard. They were multiplying faster than the U.S. national debt, and were rappelling down from the trees onto just about any surface where one might cast one’s gaze, to include all over Zan’s then-new swing set/slide/play-gym thing, which required a daily inchworm extermination detail.

After a little investigating, I discovered that these inchworms are known as winter-moth caterpillars, and that they are the new-millennium equivalent of the ’80s-era pest known as the gypsy-moth caterpillar. Of course, back in the ’80s, I wasn’t a homeowner, and so the gypsy-moth caterpillar infestation was disgusting, sure, but I was busy being an awkward, geeky adolescent, so who gives a shit about gypsy-moth caterpillars, right?

According to an article I came across during my investigation, it is estimated that these winter-moth caterpillars can infest one’s yard to the tune of about a quarter of a million per tree. We have several trees that cover a significant part of our back yard, house and front yard, so it’s probably safe to assume that, for the second consecutive spring, our yard is under siege by over a million winter-moth caterpillars.

So here’s the thing: 1 million-plus winter-moth caterpillars who do nothing but devour all of the leaves in our yard create a positively staggering amount of winter-moth caterpillar shit (which, by the way, I’ve learned is called “frass,” just in case you’re ever on “Jeopardy” and the category “Insect Excrement That Starts with the Letter ‘F'” comes up). For those not familiar, this makes one’s yard, home, cars, trash barrels, outdoor toys, swing set, etc., look as though someone hovered above your property in a large helicopter filled to the brim with 100-pound sacks of poppy seeds, cut said sacks open and heaved their contents into the air. Of course, unlike poppy seeds, caterpillar shit has the added bonus of being just moist enough when it first falls to stick to whatever surface it lands upon. For example, my lovely white car looks something like this right now.

Supposedly, it’s only going to get worse each year between now and 2010. If anyone owns a party-tent business, it’d be swell if you could hook me up with one large enough to completely cover my home and yard, OK? Thanks.

Tequila: I was gonna go with the heading “Blood,” but I already pulled a bait-and-switch with the locust/caterpillar thing, so I’m abandoning the biblical-plague theme.

In the years prior to the arrival of my children, I would occasionally utter the phrase “I need a drink.” Now, roughly three years into the adventure of parenthood, I have a bulletin that I’d like to share with the childless among you who have invoked that same phrase:

Guess what? You don’t know from needing a drink.

Each day at Casa de Scratches, from about 5 p.m. until about 8 p.m., Wonder Woman and I live through a three-pronged hazing ritual known as “Family Dinner, Bathtime, Bedtime.” I have discovered in recent months that, on those days when I have run out of nerves for my children to get on, few things make this period of time more tolerable than the magical elixir known as alcohol—the preferred form of which is a Cabo Wabo tequila-filled margarita … and, thanks to my recent discovery of the most delicious ready-made margarita mix I’ve ever tasted, why, “Family Dinner, Bathtime, Bedtime” has never been more enjoyable.

———

Alrighty, then. This long-winded, stream-of-consciousness ode to Moses is my way of saying: I’ve been gone. I’m back. Sorry for the eternity between posts.

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