In the condo complex where I used to live, I met a guy from the building next door who had just moved in with his family. He was only staying three or four months while his house was being cleaned. It seems he called in Terminix to rid his home of insects, but the Terminix guys (or gals-he didn't specify) sprayed their stuff into his ventilation system, thus contaminating his furniture, carpets, and pets.
Lawyers were called, threats were made, and now he's waiting while his house is decontaminated not only to his specs, but to his insurance companies'-homeowners and health.
Since then, I've bought a house, which means that, like that guy next door, bugs are my problem. And as it is now football season (Go Giants!) it is also ladybug season here in Greater Cincinnati. (Your infestation may vary.)
There are literally thousands of them covering the house, the deck, and the windows. Go outside and they land in your hair and on your clothing. And, of course, they get into the house too, though the dryer vent or the attic fan.
Something had to be done. Last year, my girlfriend convinced me not to spray anything outside because it might hurt the birds we spent $30 a month feeding. So I settled for a No-Pest strip in the kitchen and the Dustbuster to clean the walls.
But this is a new year. Now she's my wife, and now she's already sick of them. I told her that it was time for our long Cincinnati nightmare to come to an end. The ladybugs were going to die.
I had no plans to go easy on them; my take on killing bugs is like my friend Tom's, who says, "I want to be a molecule away from being a Superfund site." So I went to the garden section of Home Depot and asked the guy for "the insecticide most likely to be banned by the government by next year." (My dad still has a half bottle of Chlordane. It's 20 years old, and was banned in 1988. He doesn't want to give it up because it's so effective-three drops in a gallon will have Rachel Carson spinning in her grave.)
"We've got some stuff we already took off the shelf," he whispered. "That's probably what you need." So, fresh with my bottle of Thanomiazathion concentrate (trade name, "Bugs-B-Dead") and a free DuPont respirator, I went home to reduce the orange horde to so much underfoot crunchiness.
There are, in fact, state and county rules about insecticide use, such as when you have to inform the neighbors or put signs on your lawn. Oddly, though, insurance companies couldn't care less what you spray or dust around your house. Oddly, that is, because the carrier has a lot to lose if you turn your neighborhood into the next Love Canal.
But if my insurance company didn't care, I didn't care. Yeah, there are those government regulations, but they're like those rules that require a permit for building a new deck, or that restrict automatic weapons fire: No one really pays attention unless the cops are driving by. (Ask me about the automatic weapons fire sometime.) So spray I did, soaking the walls, crevices, nooks, and crannies all around the outside of the house until a greenish-gray miasma hung over the ground. The wind blew it across the road, to the empty field where I'm told a developer was planning to build some new houses. He can tell potential buyers how quiet it is in the spring.
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