There’s a cricket in my basement.  Thankfully it’s not a cave cricket, my fear of which I detailed here.  No – this is just your run of the mill, average, every day black cricket, although I’m fairly certain this one is mutated as it’s quite large.  It’s like the Arnold Schwarzeneggar of crickets.  So I’ve named him Arnie…

I saw Arnie yesterday when I took the laundry downstairs.  Upon meeting we both froze, my arms full of smelly clothes, his antenna cockeyed in a defensive stance.  And through the open air that suddenly thickened between us, we communicated.

That’s right…I struck a deal with the cricket.  He agreed not to crawl under the clothes piled in the basement and jump out at me with a Bonzai when I went to load them in the washer, burrowing himself into my brain through my ear canal and wreaking all sorts of havoc…ahem, and I agreed not to crunch him mercilessly beneath my foot.

(I’m not exactly sure why, but for some reason, I imagine all crickets as Japanese, weilding samarai swords and screeching Bonzai as they leap after their prey…)

And so I left Arnie alone and he reciprocated.  Later yesterday afternoon, he and I nodded curteously, albeit with some tension, as I checked  on the laundry.  He had moved several feet across the room, but true to his word, he was not burrowing in my laundry.

But let’s be honest here.  I’m totally going to renig on my end of the deal.  When I see Arnie later today, I will be sending my husband, my hero, down to take care of our little “tenant.”

I. don’t. like. crickets.