And speaking of trite symbolism...

So, I am not an insect person. I was a tomboy... just not a very good one. Outdoor bugs: okay, acceptable, as long as there's no touching required. Indoor bugs: absolutely unacceptable, under any circumstances. Ant in the bathroom? Call Dad in. Spider in the garage? Chase it out. No killing, no touching.

It was, then, with great trepidation that I moved into Knot Square, formerly at 25 Moran Ave in Princeton, now at 25 Nowhere Lane, Garbagetown. While living in a 180-year old house had its charms, no charm is great enough to outweigh the following... roaches, mice, leaks, stray cats, realtors, termites (sorry, "flying ants"), ladybugs, maggots, ants (non-flying), salamanders, and floodwaters... and then, finally, squirrels. Yup, that's right, and not the cute little bushy-tailed peanut-munching variety either -- rather, the Princeton Dark Side Canadian Black Squirrel... You know the one, fuliginous as midnight, occasionally hydrophobic, and sporting a closely-trimmed, strikingly rat-like tail. And the one that particularly enjoys nesting in chimneys and occasionally running rampant regardant and uninvited through the house. Michele chased out a pair (she got all the good stuff) -- one from the downstairs living room and one from her bedroom. They particularly enjoy hiding under radiators. This all happened after the previous week's refrigerator incident (largely unpublicized, we now refer to the event as "The Diaspora of Cold").

Needless to say, we moved out in order to subvert the impending yak infestation. The house was torn down and replaced with a suitably bland replacement, typical of the 2000 McMansion Movement in architecture. And Michele and I moved (separately) to condo-land, the ghettos of Plainsboro. Reasonably air-tight, with central a/c and an in-ground pool, I was suddenly living in the lap of luxury. I no longer had to worry about leaving a pizza box out on the counter -- I was the only visible eater in the house.

But nothing lasts forever, and though things aren't nearly as bad as before, I have had my fair share of visitors. There are two pigeons who get their groove on out on my deck railing. They leave me little pellets of love. Not bad. There were last year's spider mites, which decided to take up residence in my ivy plant. There was the 4-day fruit fly infestation, when I couldn't leave anything remotely organic exposed to air or these drosophilia would appear from nowhere and take up residence. There are the Jersey Bombers that flitter around my door light in the evening; I can avoid them by entering and exiting the apartment with an attention toward strategy -- maximum speed, minimum turbulence.

And then there is my latest mini-monster -- the firefly. Which, I'll grant, is kind of cool. When I was laying on the couch last night thinking about how much work I had to do today, I was truly inspired when I noticed the soft green flash above my head. Then the glow flew into the wall and crashed to the tile floor in front of the fireplace. I'm not really sure what happened, but I grabbed a paper towel intending to pick up the carcass. When I got to the scene of the accident I found the firefly was still alive, barely, sort of a steady glow rather than a flash.

I had a brief recollection of my neighbor in childhood, catching a firefly, squeezing it between his fingers, and rubbing the glowing carcass across his forehead.

I urged the firefly to crawl onto the paper towel and then took him outside and flicked him into freedom. I was still queasy about his presence within my home but I was gentle enough to make sure he didn't end up on the floormat.

I had another brief flashback, to that same neighbor and I on the side of my grandparents' house, trying to stuff fireflies into a prepared jar (holes punched in top with nail), he by catching and depositing, I by closing the jar around the still-flying flasher. He found what he thought was a cat under the bush between our yard and the yard next door -- it turned out to be a skunk.

So, I let the confused little bugger go. Then, today at work, what do I find on the floor in the women's bathroom, but another renegade firefly? This one wasn't flashing (or I couldn't see the flash, at any rate, as it was quite bright in there) but I just grabbed a paper towel and escorted another firefly to safety.

I'm beginning to feel like the pied piper of fireflies. Tonight as I was leaving rowing, I noticed that the area around the lake was absolutely swarming with fireflies. I wonder if this has something to do with the mosquito larvacide that the state of NJ may or may not be spraying on us. Circle of life and all that, you know.