One sentence alone can accurately summarize my psychological state for the past week: I hate stinkbugs. In fact, I might even hate stinkbugs more than loud cell phone talkers, lukewarm coffee or the way I can never remember the difference between magenta and fuchsia.
An epidemic of creepy-crawly proportions is sweeping the greater Charlottesville area and, dare I say, the world. This epidemic, or what I like to call an "insectidemic" is gross. Unbelievably gross. If your house isn't full of these stinkbugs, don't feel left out. It simply means that you haven't found them yet.
As for me and my household, we have found them. And seek to destroy.
A few weeks ago, we experienced a little fruit fly invasion in our kitchen. Intimidated as we were, my housemates and I found that this pesky problem was easy to solve. Apparently fruit flies really enjoy Sunset Blush. So using an improvised paper funnel and a regrettably almost-empty bottle of blush, we invited the little pests to relax and forget about their worries for a while (read: subjected them to alcohol poisoning). Problem solved, goal accomplished.
For a solid week, we were on top of the world. We had conquered the invader and found ourselves remarkably clever. Then the stinkbugs came and changed all of that. I think the most humbling part is that there seems to be no way to get rid of these stinkbugs. I'm sick of plotting my next kill and buying Febreze. Admittedly, I am starting to lose hope. And patience.
These shielded little creatures walk around Leonidas-style buzzing something that sounds a lot like, "Oh look at me, I'm a bug and I have a built-in shield. You're just a human being in flannel pajama shorts, which look stupid and don't even make sense." I get it - it's really cool that you have a shield, and I sort of wish I had one. But evolutionary adaptation be damned.
When I told him about my frustrations, a learned friend of mine suggested that I burn down my house. Duly noted. For a moment, I'll admit I was tempted. But one, I'm not trying to become homeless or go to jail for destruction of property. And two, I'm not entirely convinced that their shields aren't fire-resistant.
The same friend - who is also combating an army of stink bugs that his landlord has labeled "not a problem" - proposed a simple insecticide solution: a product called Baygon. I was completely willing to spend obscene amounts of money on any kind of product that would exterminate these pests. Until I heard the disclaimer. Baygon seemingly cannot be permitted in 20 different states, makes you woozy, requires a signature and smells awful. I then realized that this Baygon was sounding more and more like the Sex Panther of the insecticide world, and I'm not ready for my house to smell like pure gasoline.
Back to square one.
As of late, we have resorted to catching 98 percent of our stinkbugs in half-empty - no, not half-full - water bottles. This game is sort of like Easter egg hunting only a little sicker and much more fun. In case you were wondering, a 16-ounce Aquafina bottle can hold roughly 71 stink bugs.
Bottom line, this stinkbug ordeal is driving me mad. I don't even recognize myself anymore. I think I have developed the blood lust. There's no turning back now. I don't care what animal rights organizations have to say it. These things are God-awful and don't deserve to live. Perhaps that's a bit harsh. What I mean to say is that they don't deserve to live with me - unless they're willing to pay rent. I'd be more than fine with that.
Maybe the most frustrating part of it all is that you cannot just kill these things. They continue to be equally if not more annoying after death. I have, however, recently developed cat-like reflexes that have allowed me to catch and crush a flying stinkbug with my bare hands in one not-so-clean sweep. I have never been more proud or regretful in all my life. The said stinkbug also must have gotten into my coffee mug because it was flying laps around my light fixture like a marathon runner mere seconds before its demise.
We all have fun anecdotes about our stinkbug encounters. From the outside, they are incredibly amusing. But from the inside, not so much. A friend of mine found a stinkbug - still alive, mind you - nestled in the pocket of her jeans. She immediately flung him to the ceiling in a fit of rage and confusion. It's possible that the little guy survived a trip through the washer and dryer, a remarkable feat considering the ridiculous length and heat of our spin cycle. One of my housemates even smuggled a stink bug into a worship service in Maury Hall last Wednesday, unbeknownst to her until he fell out of her coat afterwards. We think he needs the Lord.
I don't know if the cold weather will make them die off or if their shields are climate-controlled. I don't know how I can kill them without causing that horrible smell or if I should even try. I don't know much of anything anymore. All I can tell you is that they really stink.
Reader's Note: The stinkbug on my wall watched me the entire time as I wrote this column.
Kathleen's column runs biweekly Mondays. She can be reached at k.baines@cavalierdaily.com.
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