I am all for equal opportunity for women. After all, I am one. And I personally experienced gender discrimination when applying to and attending veterinary school back in the dark ages. Back then I was asked at my admission interview what I would do if I got married. Women also were excluded from one of the two veterinary fraternities on campus, so that kind of narrowed down our choice. When I graduated, I was the first woman veterinarian in the Fort Walton Beach area, and was frequently told, “I didn’t know women could be veterinarians.” Okay, so this tells you how old I am.
Having established that I am all for women’s liberation (I am woman, hear me roar, and all that), I do have to say that there is still one area in a man’s world where I truly believe no woman should dare to venture. What might that area be, you ask? Killing bugs. Killing bugs is definitely not a job for a woman. I pride myself on being a reasonably independent, self-sufficient, not easily rattled woman, but let a flying palmetto bug come after me and I scream like a bad actress in a b-horror movie. Not only do I scream, but I also do the “icky-icky” dance and run for cover. If my husband is around, he will usually come running to find out if I have just cut off my finger while chopping vegetables or been hacked by an ax murderer who came through the front door he failed to lock. Nope, something much worse.
“What?” he’ll demand, upon arriving to slay whatever dragon accosted me.
“A bug!” I’ll reply in a quivering voice, bordering on hysteria.
At this he will roll his eyes, sigh, and ask, “Where?”
I’ll point in the general vicinity of the offending insect while hovering behind him for protection.
“I don’t like bugs any better than you do,” he’ll mutter.
“Yeah, but you’re a man. It’s your job to kill the bugs.” At least I think that’s a rule. If not, it should be.
He will usually tough it out, although if the thing comes after him, all bets may be off. There may be a little bit of male shrieking, which is not pretty. But generally, he will manage to dispatch the terrorizing creature to the great septic tank in the sky with a shoe or rolled up newspaper or other handy bug-killing implement.
Me, I can’t step on a bug or hit it with a shoe. First, it requires I get closer to the creature than I am comfortable being (not that there is any distance from a bug with which I am comfortable), and second, I can’t stand the crunching sound their little chitinous exoskeletons make when squashed. I generally can’t swat them off a wall, either, as I usually miss and just make them more angry and more determined to “get” me. Or they crawl into an inaccessible place and bide their time until I let down my guard.
So what, you may ask, do I do when confronted by a bug when my husband is not around. That’s easy. I spray it. I can stand back from a safe distance and saturate half a room with toxic chemicals in the hope of the spray getting somewhere in the generally vicinity of the bug. It’s kind of like dropping a bomb on an entire city with the goal of wiping out one enemy without actually having to go hand-to-hand combat. What if I don’t have bug spray? It doesn’t matter. I spray it with something—Windex, 409, oven cleaner, Endust—whatever. Surely something in one of those products will kill it. Plus, while I’m spraying, I can still scream and do the “icky-icky” dance, which, as we all know, is a requirement of any bug-female confrontation.
So, all you men out there, man up and rescue us swooning females from the terrifying insect population. Otherwise, I warn you, I have Lysol Multi-Purpose cleaner and I’m not afraid to use it!