Yesterday morning began normally. I got off work, dropped husband off at home, grabbed Old Kid, and headed for my mother’s house to pick up Young Kid. The sun was bright (painfully bright, actually, to someone who works night shift in a basement), the air was warm, and the windows were down because my piece of crap car doesn’t have air conditioning.
As we turned the corner at the end of my street Old Kid suddenly said, “Holy crap!”
Sudden exclamations of “Holy crap!” are not something I want to hear while I’m driving down the road. Swiftly I checked my mirrors and blind spots.
“Holy crap what?” I asked when I failed to see a flaming semi truck bearing down on us at a furious speed.
“Look at that!” he said, pointing to the corner of the windshield.
Stupid me. I looked. Staring back at me was the most freakishly huge praying mantis I’ve ever seen in my life. Fortunately for me and everyone else on the road the thing was on the outside, clinging to the wiper blade. Had it been inside, I would have promptly run the car into a ditch and fled screaming into the countryside.
“Roll your window up, son,” I said nervously as the mantis leered at me through the glass.
“No,” he said, laughing at me. (memo to self: disinherit the little heathen.)
I sped up, reasoning that if I got enough wind going the little mutant would fly off into the slipstream and out of my life forever. A vain hope it was; the thing clung more tightly to the wiper blade with its little buggy alien feet and continued to glare at me while my son snickered in the passenger seat.
After an interminably long 10 minute drive we arrived at my mother’s house. My son, showing a woeful overabundance of sheer orneriness, still refused to remove the offending rider. Said rider, meanwhile, was clearly aware of my extreme aversion to its presence, as it kept turning its foul head to keep me in sight while I walked around the car to buckle Young Kid into her car seat.
I got back into the driver’s seat and watched as the mantis shuffled around to get a tighter grip on the wiper blade, staring at me the whole time. Mind you, I hadn’t started the car yet. This thing apparently made the connection that big blob in the car=car will move=big wind=hang on! That kind of sentience in an insect disturbs me. And it wouldn’t stop staring at me.
On the ride home the children took great delight in screeching, “He’s watching you, Mom!” every 1.3 seconds. Next time they ride in the trunk.
We finally made it. The vile little creature turned its head and continued to watch me as I got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. I managed to convince my son to coax the insectile hellbeast onto a stick and release it into a tree.
My God, that thing was creepy. I know exactly why it was staring at me, too; its thoughts could be read plainly in its appraising glare. It wanted to jump on me and eat my head.
You got off lucky this time, you little vulture. Next time it’s the shoe.