I have some serious (bug) problems. So much so that I
sometimes feel like my life story would be more interesting to an entomologist than
someone that wanted to live or teach in Japan. I am proud to present yet
another Japanese bug story.
Yesterday
I came home and walked into my kitchen to grab a glass of water. There was rice
all over my floor. I stopped and stared.
I was confused. Since my house seems to suffer from an incurable bug problem,
my cleaning habits have more or less consistently bordered on obsessive. I lie
awake at night if I know that I left a dish unclean. Obviously, this was
insanely out of character.
I
stopped and asked myself questions:
Did I drink last
night?
I didn’t remember drinking. I opened the fridge and confirmed
that my six pack was full, my wine bottle was unopened (yes, I do refrigerate
my wine! Don’t judge me! Stop!), and my Gin was still sealed. Check, check, and
check.
Did I hit my head last
night?
I hadn’t seen any
bruises that morning and no one had pointed anything strange out that day. If I
use light brown eye shadow instead of skin tone my students know and excitedly
tell me how cool they think that is. They would have told me. I felt my head.
Nothing hurt. Check and check.
Did I even eat rice
last night?
The answer was no. I had made the equivalent of a breakfast
burrito with potatoes, onions, eggs, and tomatoes. No rice.
Did my rice spill? I
checked to make sure that all my doors and windows were closed and locked. If
my rice had spilled, something or someone had spilled it. I grabbed my spider
slaying broom and began to search my house. I looked, timidly, under and behind
each piece of furniture. Check, check, check, check, CHECK, check, check,
check, and check. Then, as I shuffled my way back to my kitchen in defeat I
remembered something: I didn’t even have rice in my house to begin with. I had
finished my first and only bag nearly a month before and never got around to
buying more.
WHY THE FUCK IS THERE RICE ON MY FLOOR?
That particular question I yelled aloud. Now, Japanese walls
are thin. If my neighbors are having an argument I can hear the entire thing. However,
I take great comfort in the fact that my neighbors speak almost no English. Any
phrase beyond “hello!” or “see you!” is rewarded with a blank stare. Their
children speak a little more English, but as one of their teachers I can
confirm that “why the fuck” isn’t in their lesson plans or their vocabulary lists.
I can get away with yelling a lot.
Miffed, I grabbed a broom to sweep. Then, I noticed
something. The rice. It was MOVING.I looked closer and discovered that there
was no rice on my floor. There were HUNDREDS of (fly larvae)/(other larvae)/(secret
option C) making a mass exodus to the holy land: my trash can.
I dropped my broom, grabbed the vacuum and fought the urge
to vomit or gag by calling “BEAM ME UP SCOTTY” and making various spaceship
sounds. As I did this, I noticed a couple flies buzzing around the kitchen. I
caught myself wondering whether these were their parents and what it would be
like to watch one’s children get sucked into a giant vortex of doom. This made
the whole process a lot less fun. I’m not that weird; right?
Ted Bundy once
explained that he chose not to enter graduate school for Psychology (I was a
Psychology major) because Psychologists were some of the most messed up/weirdest/strange
people he knew.* I’m going to choose to ignore that (I mean, the guy killed and
tortured people, I don’t think he’s a good judge of character) and continue to
tell myself that I’m normal.
Until next time!
*I tried to find this
exact quote and could not. I had a professor that had interviewed him back in
the day, and this story came up in class. If I can find proof I’ll post a link.