I’m living out a live action version of the Itchy & Scratchy Show, ever since the sun decided to pay a surprise visit to the Bay Area. On Tuesday, it hit 90F. In case you didn’t know, San Francisco homes rarely come equipped with air conditioning, since it’s mainly grey and cool. Our abode, a 1932 beauty with the original, tall, outward opening windows, turns into a mighty furnace when the temperature rises. Oh, and did I mention, California builders don’t bother with screens? Even when the cool of evening arrived, I had to keep those windows that do open ajar.
Cue the mosquitoes. Our backyard abutting neighbor kindly maintains a pool of standing water in a turned off fountain, allowing for an abundance of buzzing, hungry miniature beasts. Since I sleep au natural and blankets were out of the question, by morning I had morphed into a kaleidoscope of angy red welts. I think my favorite eruption rests just under my left eye, with the monster on my right pinky a close second, followed by the ordinary arm and leg assortment.
I don’t know whether to be happy or sad that the damage was inflicted by silent, stealth mosquitoes. I simply awoke looking like a modern art version of chicken pox. Usually, I’m just about asleep when I hear the invading army advance. Bzzzzzzzz. My usual, useless defense is your garden variety arm flapping. Once I outdid myself and awoke with a dead, smashed, bloody little bugger encrusted onto my forehead. Lovely. I cannot believe how energetic these nighttime pests are. “Aren’t you tired?” Me. “Bzzzzzzzzzzzz.” My guests.
I suppose it’s a small price to pay for the joy of living in (most of the time) Fog City. “Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.” Translation: “We agree!”