That Time George Harrison Invaded My Personal Space

Late the other night, I climbed in bed, praying I'd be able to get to sleep before the sun came up. My sleep habits have been seriously off kilter for the past month. But I was tired, it was like 2 a.m. and I had hope.

I pulled the fan closer to my doorway, made sure all the critters were situated and snuggled in to bed.


My room had been infiltrated.

"BUUUUUUUUUZZZZZ, " It got louder and closer to my head. I turned the lamp on, praying to all that's Holy that it wasn't another giant, black wasp like I had to do battle with last year. Nutmeg came running in the bedroom to help. Whatever it was, it was so large, I could hear it body-slamming in to the ceiling, but I couldn't see it.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Nutmeg sneaking up on something by the dresser. As I turned to look, she shot up three feet in the air and ran across my body, taking some skin with her and flying out the door. She was all, "ABORT! ABORT! YOU ARE ON YOUR OWN LADY!"

I didn't see her again 'til the next morning.

Eventually, things quieted down. I figured it had moved on to another room and it was safe to go to sleep. I settled back in to bed and closed my eyes. I felt the stress drain away. I was looking forward to getting some sleep before daylight, maybe I'd finally get straightened out.

That's when it hit the fan, or rather, the bug dive bombed straight in to my belly. I came up off the bed, turned on the lamp and grabbed the broom. I finally got a good look at the little a-hole when he landed on the nightstand.

This is the actual text message I sent T.A., who was working the graveyard shift:
(I will sanitize the language for the more delicate of my readers)

There is an effing flying insect the size of a small UFO doing repeated flyovers in my bedroom. The cats have gone insane, they think it's a bird and I'm going to go sleep in my gawd darned truck. JEEBUS.
          Then I sent her the picture, with the message:
It's a beetle!
It's a giant Egyptian curse bug
Rofl it ain't a scarab
Since he wouldn't leave, I named him George. George Harrison... for obvious reasons. We had a discussion about his being in my house and invading my bedroom. He agreed to stop attacking me. I explained to him that my boudoir was off limits.

I still hear him flying in to things on occasion.

I finally did get to sleep that night, but I think it was more due to the Benadryl I took than my little talk with George. All that flinging the broom around and unintentional swatting at cobwebs, set off a violent allergy attack. I coughed and sneezed so hard, I jarred lady bits that have been in hibernation for some years.

It was unpleasant. I may have peed a little.

My strains and sprains were compounded the following day, when I stepped in a surprise left in the kitchen floor, compliments of Sammy, and slid across the linoleum before totally losing it, hitting the floor and spraining my whole ass area.

I don't think I broke anything, but I can't swear to the integrity of the floor joists.

I'm ready to go check in at Shady Pines.

Later Taters!