The Mister and I moved into our new place late Saturday evening. We put a few necessary things away and settled down to watch tv before bed in our brand new master bedroom, complete with an attached bathroom that we don’t have to get dressed to use in the middle of the night.
Then, Sunday morning, we woke up in the living room, groggy and confused by our surroundings.
Alien abduction? Crazy, drunken housewarming party?
No. Army invasion.
Rewind to Saturday night. The Mister and I are lying in bed talking about the amazing amount of breeze coming in through our open window shutters. We didn’t even need the air conditioner! (Which was good because we haven’t figured out how to work it yet.) Then, a little black speck rushed across our line of vision. A mosquito. The intruder was soon vanquished and we continued our conversation. Suddenly, an eerie whining seemed to fill the air around us. Two mosquitoes. They, too, met their demise. We declared the battle won and turned out the lights. About ten minutes later, I scratched an itch on my shoulder and felt something there. I turned on the bedside lamp. A dead mosquito. Half an hour after that, the Mister jumped out of bed in a frenzy.
“I’m being eaten alive! They won’t let me sleep! Look at my legs!” He did, indeed, have several large red welts rising on the skin of his legs and feet. We turned on the lights and decided to kill the remaining insect and go back to bed. Little did we know that those first four intruders were only the scouts. The army had yet to reveal itself.
If anyone had looked through our windows over the next hour and a half, they would have seen two young people in their pajamas doing some sort of strange ritual dance involving random, jerky movements and the clapping of hands in the air at various intervals and locations. We killed fourteen mosquitoes before discovering that one of our open bathroom windows doesn’t have a screen in it. That’s when I stopped counting. Every time we’d kill one, another would zoom down from who-knows-where and begin its assault, sometimes in groups of two or more. The battlefield was covered with the bodies of the dead and wounded. Finally, at 1:30 a.m., the Mister and I sounded the retreat and, grabbing our pillows and extra linens from the closet, escaped upstairs to the living room.
Thank goodness for pull-out couches.
For whatever reason there were no mosquito soldiers in the upstairs portion of the house, so of course my brain had to invent some. I dreamed of giant mosquitos landing on the bed and refusing to be squashed. I dreamed of being literally eaten alive by the dark hordes descending, and then forced myself awake to discover that there were no whining clouds of death lurking over me.
This was all after Meera, terrified of her new surroundings, bolted out the front door and into the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car.
The Mister and I rolled over in the wee hours of Sunday morning, as the dawn light started to come through the porch windows, and agreed that we’d just survived the worst first night in a new house ever.
Sunday night only yielded three insect casualties and we were able to reclaim the bedroom, although the Mister was still bitten a few times by an invisible survivor. We’re taking all possible precautions to avoid another showdown, however. We try not open any doors after 5:30 p.m. and soak the window slats with Off! bug spray at about the same time, in the hopes that any stragglers will decide not to squeeze through the shutter slats and avenge the deaths of their brethren. The Mister is also sleeping in bug spray, since they seem to like him better than they do me and he’s apparently allergic to them. My bites are normal mosquito bites; his are hard, raised welts the color of tomatoes. Poor baby. Hopefully we’ll get a new window screen for the bathroom soon (we don’t have glass windows, only screens covered by adjustable wooden slats).
But our only roommate is a large lizard that lives behind the tv cabinet, so we do have that. 🙂
Do you have any new house stories to share?