This week was originally going to be a vacation. In my year and a half over at MTV News, I never touched any of my vacation days. This was not by any grand design. I like vacations as much as the next guy. But apart from two weeks of paternity leave and the odd day off here and there, I simply never got around to taking a proper vacation. Times were tough, the demands were increasing and the editorial staff was worryingly lean (only to get leaner, as it turned out). The notion of taking days off didn't seem especially prudent. But after a year and a half there, I started to think that the time was nigh. Everyone else was doing it. In May, I reserved a week in the middle of July -- in between impending major events like Live Earth and the Video Music Awards -- that didn't conflict with any of my colleagues' scheduled vacations. My sister's house out in Quogue was going to be empty and free and she very generously offered it to us. It would be seven days of relaxation and sun outside of the office. It was all set.
As fate would have it (and isn't fate just a bossy bitch?), when that week in July finally did arrive, I would not have a job to take a vacation from. As I mentioned in these earlier posts, I was job eliminated in early July. All plans immediately flew up in the air, as they always do when these sorts of things happen. I mounted a strenuous campaign at once to get re-situated. I fired off countless e-mails to friends, former colleagues and tenuous contacts, politely informing them of my plight and kindly asking them to keep their respective eyes and ears open for possible openings or new opportunities for me. I tweaked and re-tweaked my resume to accent my marketable skills and accomplishments. I cast the net wide and reached out to anyone/everyone who might be able to assist me in my search to find new and gainful employment. Life became a frustrating game of hurry-up-&-wait as I kept a constant vigil in front of my computer, waiting for the replies and -- hopefully -- tips, leads and offers to start rolling in.
It has been said, however, that a watched pot never boils. I'm no chef, but I can't help thinking that that's kind've a big stack of crap, as I've certainly put a pot of water on the burner before and watched it come to a boil. In any event, despite the arguable veracity of the adage, things were simply not happening as swiftly as I'd have liked. When the question came up as to whether or not we were still going to go ahead with our planned vacaction, I was initially skeptical. It didn't seem sensible to be away should that fateful e-mail from __________ (insert prestigious media outlet name here) arrive, feverishly demanding an interview. After thinking it over, however, it seemed ridiculous to keep my family cooped up in the sweltering, unrelenting city. Moreover, my sister's place comes equipped with a computer, so I could continue to check my e-mail, and I could handily just hop on a city-bound Hampton Jitney should I actually get one of those e-mails. We decided to go ahead with the vacation.
We drove out Monday afternoon, braving the high speed shenanigans of the Long Island Expressway's H.O.V lane, depositing us safely in the calm, quiet confines of the South Shore of Long Island. The first thing I did upon arriving, of course, was log on to Vicky's computer and check my e-mail. After the long drive, however, my kids were ready to be fed and put to bed. While Peggy struggled to accomplish those missions, I volunteered to pop back out to pick up some groceries and a pizza for our dinner later. So I hopped back in the car, cranked up the CD player and did just that.
About twenty minutes later, I pulled back into my sister's drive-way, walked into the house with my bag full of groceries and a piping hot pizza, and found Peggy looking concerned and disgusted. While I'd been out, Peggy investigated the cupboards to find something to feed the kids for dinner. Given that this house has been known to play host to as many as eleven people at a time, suffice it to say, the kitchen is generally well-stocked. Peggy picked up a box of elbow-shaped pasta and removed it from the cupboard. Upon opening it, she let out a shriek. The box was filled and literally crawling with several slimey larvae. Peggy looked back into the cupboard and found the entire four shelves playing host to a tiny, repulsive nation of crawling, slithering moths in various states of sickening devlopment (the elders flying about). She closed the cupboard.
After a few moments of "Ewwwwww!", I decided to give the premises a once-over for myself. Under closer scrutiny, the offending insect populace was starting to infultrate the environs outside of their captured cupboard, clearly with designs on the rest of my sister's otherwise immaculate kitchen. I should point out at this stage that these moths (and moth young'uns) were not of the type pictured at the top of this post, that being the fearsome Acherontius "Styx," made somewhat infamous by its role in "Silence of the Lambs." That's just me excercising a bit of poetic license. Unlike those stately moths, these were tiny -- but no less disgusting -- little critters about a thumbnail long, and their larvae looked like disquietingly mobile grains of rice. It was truly enough to put you off your food.
But our food was waiting. So, after a few slices of pizza and some confidence-building alcohol, Peg and I armed ourselves with spray-bottles of Windex and Fantastic (anything with amonia in it, really) a healthy supply of paper towels and an old fly swatter, and set about giving the infested cupboard a proper blitzkrieg. To suggest that the task was revolting is an understatement. Even after buoying our bravado with several cocktails, we still found ourselves wincing with nauseau at the sight of a hundred squirming larvae feasting on a package of cake mix. This was not how we'd envisioned our first night out in the country.
After throwing away a shameful amount of foodstuffs riddled with tiny vermin, we gave the cupboard a final wipe through and repaired to the porch for another round of drinks and a cleansing, late night dip in the pool to celebrate our victory over the moths. By the next morning, however, the cupboard had already started to show signs of a second offensive via tiny, tell-tale black specks (moth eggs). While Peg and I had thought that we'd won that battle, clearly it's a war that needs to be waged by my sister. It's her house, after all.
Every house in Quogue I've stayed in during my thirty-nine years has had some similar form of struggle. On Barker Lane in the 70's, the pantry was virtually overrun with ants (thus re-dubbed the "Antry" by some wisenheimer or another) and at one point, there was so much moisture in the house that the floor of my bedroom warped and mushrooms actually started to grow out of the living room fireplace. In other houses, mold and mildew were the culprits. Others seemed to be built right above mosquito nests. In my Mom's house, there have been repeated instances wherein squirrels have managed to get inside to wreak no small amount of havoc. In her small way, this is Mother Nature's way of telling us that while we may have successfully managed to set up shop here, it should be remembered that we are not entirely welcome guests.
Despite giving me a jolting case of the creepy crawlies (I'm now continually convinced there's one in my hair), our melee with the moths has at least gotten me thinking about something other than finding a new job. Maybe I'll become an exterminator.
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