I don’t have the bug phobia. I don’t want them on me or in my house if I can help it, but they don’t send me into fits. I reserve that paranoia entirely for snakes. But the past few days … it’s been Bug Mania.

We started composting about two months ago, something we should have done long ago. While we (okay, Brian) empty the container – and it has a lid – often, the fruit flies are trying to take over. And they’re not settling for just produce. Oh no. They attacked the coffee grinder after we (okay, Brian) left some dark roast beans it in. This morning I discovered an empty Stag can on my kitchen counter (again, Brian) swarmed with fruit flies.

I’m really hoping Brian finished the can before abandoning it. They’re reproducing fast enough; I don’t need drunk fruit flies having pregnancy mishaps to add to this insane brood.

We have vinegar traps all over the kitchen. Vinegar doesn’t have the same pull as Stag.

Could we just leave it at fruit flies? No, of course not!

Saturday night I joined a pack of my friends at Off Broadway to see Beth Bombara, The Safes, The Blind Eyes, and Gentleman Auction House. Fun? Of course. Afterwards, we wound up at Uncle Bill’s. Only Courtney goes to Uncle Bill’s on purpose. Everyone else winds up there when everything else has closed for the night. Who doesn’t want to absorb a belly full of beer with cheap breakfast fry-up surrounded by 1970s ambiance, served by ladies with jailhouse pot leaf tattoos on their forearms?

By 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning, Uncle Bill’s is pretty damn packed, and we had a bit of a group – Julie, Kat, Drunk Erin, and The Safes. You know, one of the bands I mentioned earlier, who crashed at Kat’s place. I shared a booth with Julie, Drunk Erin (who isn’t always drunk, but was at the time), and Frankie from the band.

Forget your preconcieved notions about musicians, already. This guy’s a smarty. A little manic, but willing and able to talk about damn near anything. And polite. He asked if it was okay if he skipped the pancakes in favor of corned beef hash. Well, if you must …

I even managed to impress him with my coolness. Oh yeah, that’s right. While we were talking, a large piece of fluffy gray fuzz fell from the ceiling – possibly from the dying air conditioner that threatened to explode above Julie’s head. As it landed on my shoulder, I reached to brush it off when it up and ran down my chest like some beauty pageant sash come to life while everyone at the table screamed. It ran down my arm and, not wanting whatever it was to hit the table, I gently blew it to the floor, where it scrambled towards Julie’s feet, which she stomped while screaming, “Oh my God! It’s going to run up my pant leg! Oh my God!”

Apparently, I had been attacked by a silverfish. I didn’t know; I’d never seen one before.

See? Don’t let the fruit flies fool you – I’m not a total slob. Although it wasn’t until the next day that it occured to Julie, Sober Erin, and me that we ate food from the restaurant after the silverfish attack. Not smart. I blame the maraschino cherries soaked in vodka and Everclear that Julie had been feeding us.

After the screaming stopped, but before we developed grease-induced amnesia, Frankie complimented my calmness while being under silverfish siege. See that drummer? He thought I was cool because I didn’t have the perfectly normal human reaction of pissing myself when terrifying creatures dropped onto my person from above.

It feels good to have my skills appreciated.

The next day, friends invaded my home to celebrate my birthday. Since many of us hadn’t gotten home until well after 4 a.m., and there were a few hangovers, it was a rather quiet gathering. Some wore pajamas. All were unmoving enough to be in danger of being carried off by fruit flies. Perhaps the fruit flies don’t like bodies filled with poisoned cherries and casseroles made from vegetables, mayonnaise and cheese, of which there were three.

Monday, I accompanied Clara Jane’s class to a pumpkin patch. No one said anything, but I think my reputation from last year preceded me, as I was only put in charge of my own child. Just as well, because even though we weren’t in an orchard where I can lose children behind trees, I don’t know if I could have prevented the swarms of ladybugs from carrying away more than my own flesh and blood.

Well well. Isn’t that fanfuckingtastic? My kid has bugs in her hair. Or a bug. A ladybug. At least she has sleek hair and the bugs tended to slide off. I have a shitload of thick, curly hair; I’m not convinced I’m ladybug-free yet. Or silverfish-free, for that matter.

At one point during the day, I scratched my ear lobe only to crush a stinking ladybug behind it. Finally! Something bug-related to oog me out because let me tell you, I crawled out of my skin a little.

Monday afternoon I got to interview a chef at a fine dining establishment that shares its name with a bug. But the one pretty, acceptable bug. That’s my birthday gift from the universe, as it’ll be in Chef’s Choice tomorrow afternoon as I turn 37. So take that, bugs and age.