Dealing With Headaches

As I type this, I am currently suffering from what I call “The Great Cricket Headache”. As far as I know, there is no official medical term that matches this — but there should be! This is the headache you get after having a cricket in your bedroom go CRICKET all night long.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not anti-cricket. I think crickets have just as much right to live in America as anyone else. I think crickets should be paid an equal wage for doing an equal job as any other American insect. But having one in my bedroom is making me think of committing cricket-a-cide.

I used to live in the South West of England back when there was a Concorde flying back and forth over our heads. That sonic boom was not half as bad as this darn cricket in my bedroom. At least a sonic boom goes away.

The Pathetic Cricket Hunt

Two nights ago, my dog cornered the cricket on her bed. I scooped it up with a plastic cup and set it free outside. By this time, I had been awake for an hour and a half so I thought, “Well, it’s four-thirty in the morning — I’m only going to get up in another four hours, anyway.” So I gave the dog a walk and reorganized the basement.

Last night, about one in the morning, I’m sleeping, the dog is sleeping and then

CRICKET!

Apparantly, this is a different cricket. Either that, or the cricket I turned out last night was the Harry Potter of crickets and this time came back under an invisibility cloak. I tore the room apart and couldn’t find the critter even though I could distinctly hear CRICKET coming at me tauntingly.

I can’t use insect killing sprays for two reasons — one, they might get my dog sick and two, they DEFINATELY get me sick. In comparing the levels of misery, I fear vomiting more than I do CRICKET.

So I did the only thing a sensible human being would do.

That’s right — I slept on the couch.

Meanwhile, my dog was snoring away all of this time. This is the same dog that slept through both Guy Fawlks’ Night and Fourth of July night in the same year. Two rounds of exploding holidays on both sides of the Atlantic, and she couldn’t be bothered. The cricket meant nothing to her. I call, “Pony! Get the buggy!” and Pony looks at me and says, “You want the buggy — YOU get the buggy.”

So I’ve been sleep-deprived for two nights. Wonder if the third time will be the charm? Boy, am I looking forward to going deaf!