The Moths Go Marching Three by Three...

So, you know that moth who met his maker on my van's dashboard? In a bed of dust? And who lay there, without proper burial -- uh, disposal -- for a couple of weeks?

Well, his relatives have come seeking vengenace. They've taken up residence in my closet and instructed their larvae (don't you just hate that word?) to feast on my clothes.

*Shudder.*

I suppose I deserve it. I've read the Iliad.  I know the importance of a proper burial.

But still. Does it HAVE to be moths? Ugh.

Of Moths and Men: Afterword

In my last post about the dreaded moth, I told you I was going to ask Benjy to dispose of the corpse. I was going to do it after school yesterday, and I'm pretty sure he was going to oblige.

But yesterday morning I woke up to a deflated tire. Flat as a pancake. So Lars pumped it up with his super-duper bike pump and told me to drive it -- gingerly -- to the garage.

I did not give a second thought to the half-inch of dust on the dashboard, the leaves and pine needles on the floor, the crud (read: food detritus) all over the place that could feed a small impoverished village for a week. Those guys at the garage have seen it before.

So I limped on over to the service station and they extracted the nail from my tire, gave me a couple of light bulbs, an overdue oil change, and the December inspection I was probably going to forget about until the second week in January.

I indulged in a little Starbucks love while I waited, as the garage is only a block away from our local Sbux, and this is the season of egg-nog lattes (I sure hope Lars isn't reading this). And when I picked the car up, the guy said in heavily accented English:

"Next time you gonna get a new axle. I don't wan' you to have more damage, but for today I know you gotta pick up your son at twelve. And, we gonna give you a detail and you think the car is bran' new. It's only $300 but we gonna give it to you for less, say $275. It's gonna smell great an' you think you got a new car."

"Oh, yes," I replied. "Sure." Thinking, There is no way in hell I'm paying $275 to get the dust and the pine needles and the crud out of my car. I'll make Lars do it for nothing.

So I forked over a hundred and fifty bucks for all the work and drove home. Just before I pulled into my driveway I glanced at my dashboard and it hit me: THE MOTH WAS GONE.

And now I am embarrassed. Because those guys at the gas station must think I am some sort of lunatic, or at least very, very dirty. Both of which are probably a little bit true.

Of Moths and Men

There is a moth on my van's dashboard, nestled comfortably in a half-inch layer of dust. It's dead.

I hope you don't ask me why the moth is lying there dead in the dust. If you do, and I am more or less truthful in response, I will have to tell you it's because I'm too lazy to do anything about it. If I'm *slightly* less truthful, I will tell you that in order to dispose of the moth I will have to pick it up, and even with a tissue between me and the moth, that is a distasteful venture.

(Digression: I think the reason I hate moths so much is because of a close encounter I once had with one. I was a junior in college, taking a summer course at a university near my parents' house. It was nighttime. I was sitting at the kitchen table writing (longhand -- gasp!) a paper. My parents have this groovy seventies table -- in 1984 it was a little less vintage than it is now -- with a lamppost rising out of the middle of it. At the top of this lamppost is a round white globe that is also a light. A moth would love this, right?

So there I was, applying pen to paper and trying to ignore the moth fluttering around over my head, when I had a grisly thought. What if that moth got it into its non-existent brain to fly into my rather loose blouse? (I can't explain this blouse but it was the mid-eighties -- need I say more?) I was flapping around in the blouse, and it occurred to me that the moth could fly right in.

And then, Readers, It Did.

I screamed, did a little dance, swore eternal hatred for all lepidoptera of the moth variety (I am okay with butterflies. They have never offended me).

So that's why this moth is lying supine on my dashboard. It died there, I said, "GOOD!", and now I am too scared (or too lazy, take your pick) to clean it up. And this moth is of the Glenn Close-Fatal Attraction ilk. Saskia and I got into the car the other day, and I pointed it out.

"Oh, look," I said. "That moth finally died. About time."

"Ew," said Saskia.

We drove a block and all of a sudden that dead, supine moth staggered to its feet.

"Whoa!" I said, nearly losing control of the car. The moth ignored me and tottered directly toward Saskia. She screamed. So did I. We watched it make its way toward her and screamed some more. Then, nanoseconds before dropping onto Saskia's lap, the moth expired. For real.

I may get around to removing the corpse later this week. Or I may ask Benjy to do it.

He likes bugs.