Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I opened the bottom - right hand - cupboard door to look for the colander because those olives weren’t going to rinse themselves. A hand mixer, several plastic bowls, an electric can opener and a package of millet (hastily placed after our arrival the night before) greeted my eyes with nary a colander in sight. I crouched down to get a closer look and as I peered into the darkness, something caught my attention. It was dark, it was brown and it was alive. At least, it used to be. My mom and I laid it on the stove top to get a closer look. This is Richard, the palmetto bug. Richard is was huge. May he (and his detached leg) rest in peace. It wasn’t the first time we’d encountered palmetto bugs while on vacation in the southern US and by the way Floridians, you can call them what you want but a cockroach is still cockroach.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Anyone who knows me, knows that I am obsessed with bugs - and not in a good way. I refuse to camp, hike, bike -- or for that matter go outside, so as to avoid the creepy crawly little bastards. I suppose what I'm saying is, don't read this if you're squeamish about antannae, abdomens, thoraxes or mandibles. Consider yourself warned. ------- I have a thing about bugs. The thing is, I don't like them. No, actually I despise them. A lot. I come by this honestly. My father was the kind of man who meticulously sealed any and all cracks in our houses with a caulking gun (or 10 or 20). So fastidious was he, that there was no way any vermin (not tiny bug nor giant rat) could infiltrate our compounds. Me, I do my best. Once, when we were "under construction", I (after spotting an earwig) unleashed enough spray foam around a window frame that my bedroom wall started to buckle. Bugs know I hate them. They do. I know this ...