As the little girl said in front of the snowy television screen in Poltergeist, “They’re heeeeeeeerrrrrreeeee!”
The big red-eyed, large-winged, drunk-flying, 17-years-underground cicadas are out here in Maryland. And they are out in droves!
A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I, being way-too-curious about these monsters from my nightmares, decided to check our yard to see if we had any yet. Our neighbor did, but we hadn’t seen them.
This was one exploration that I wish we had skipped.
In a bare part of our backyard, we saw the Swiss cheese that the dirt had become. The tell-tale holes were there.
But I didn’t see any bugs.
Then I looked up into the tree I was standing under.
Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
There they were—some actually in the act of sloughing their outer shells; in other cases, the empty, slimy shells were still hanging there, looking like the discarded skins of…Ugh…I can’t even write about what they look like because I just Googled them to find descriptive words, and saw photos—tons and tons of photos of hanging, empty shells for the love of God—and now I’m covered with goosebumps and creeped out all over again. Trust me, they’re gross.
I literally shuddered.
Then I realized I was standing right under them. Directly under quite a lot of them.
At any moment, they or their gross, empty carcasses—so to speak—could come falling down and get stuck in my hair.
I backed up faster than an elephant in a cartoon when it sees a mouse.
What I had seen was like a miniature version of Jurassic Park: Everything but the Dinosaur.
I think they should make it into a movie, albeit, one I would never go see.
I am not afraid of bugs. Well, okay, the stinging things, will get me to run away pretty quickly. And so will Mothra when it flies out of nowhere in my home office. But that’s about it.
Last weekend, before the temperature hit 156 degrees as it often feels like here in Baltimore, I was out front, working in the garden with my husband.
I was having fun. It was enjoyable. Everything was awesome.
Then a flipping cicada flew right into the front of my hair.
I’m embarrassed to say that I acted like women in old movies who jumped on chairs at the sight of a mouse. (What is it with people being terrified of mice? I get the “ick” factor. But at least they run away from you.)
I jumped up, yelling, “Brad! Brad! One flew into my hair!” as I began frantically running my hands through my big, curly hair—which gets bigger and curlier in the summer, I might add—trying to shake it out.
“It’s already gone,” my husband said with nary a glance my way. He got back to work. He’s Type B, in case you couldn’t tell.
I, however, ran into the house. Yep, I was done for the day.
I’m learning a lot, though. After a recent strong thunderstorm, the mating song of the cicadas—which was already loud enough in my view to break the sound barrier—got even louder after the rain stopped. I mean really loud!
You try to forget them, but as soon as you open a window or door, there they are—whirring like a jet engine.
My also extremely Type B neighbor told me two disturbing things: one, his dog keeps trying to eat their empty, icky shells as well as the live bugs, when she can catch them. And Dixie, not her real name, is a fast dog. Why she can’t catch them is a puzzler. Then again, I don’t want her to have cicada breath next time I see her either.
Second, while he was mowing the lawn, tons of cicadas were landing all over the mower—and all over him.
ALL OVER HIM!!!
Clunk…sorry, think I fainted there for a minute.
“I was catching them and calmly driving them over to a tree,” he said like he was on Wild Kingdom: Cicada Edition. “You, on the other hand, would have driven the mower into the woods…or knowing you, you would have jumped off it while it was running, thinking, ‘Well, I can always replace the mower.’”
Yeah, well, I’m never going to mow our lawn—ever.
Just yesterday, I was coming home from an appointment, and while waiting at a stop light, I saw them—tons of bugs flying back and forth, some even splatting right into the windshield, and I was sitting still. I was completely freaked out, but felt safe at least being in the car.
When I got home, that was another story. I opened the garage door, opened my car door, and made a run for it as though my life depended on it. Or in this case, my hair.
I made it safely and cicada-free into my home. For the next couple of weeks, while these little monsters continue their mating and then their dying or the new ones crawling underground to live for the next 17 years, don’t expect to see me.
I’ll be hiding in my home, waiting for the cicada Rumspringa to end—sooner, I hope, rather than later.
Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not thinking of all the money she’s saved on therapy by staying away from the googly eyed bugs, writes “Wojo’s World® from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning humor book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.
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