Jiminy

The common cricket enjoys an elevated status in many cultures. As insects go, it tends to be treated as one of the good guys. In the U.S., we are indoctrinated at a young age with classics such as "A Cricket in Times Square", and in the form of the unforgettable conscience of a certain wooden boy. In more recent years, a cricket stars as the high-pitched good luck charm of the eponymous heroine of the animated Disney feature, Mulan.

With these as my cricket role models, it's no wonder that my initial reaction to a cricket taking up residence in my bathroom was fairly positive. I was first made aware of his existence by an unusually resoundant chirping coming from the bathroom as I got ready for bed. I found it strangely soothing, and enjoyed my personal lullaby.

Over the next couple of days, I bragged about my new friend, and encouraged his singing by whistling in his general direction. (Turns out he's somewhat partial to the hit Korean song, "Nobody".）He gradually gained confidence, and his songs became louder and more frequent. And can you blame him? What musician doesn't love the acoustics of a tiled room?

But, inevitably, things started getting out of control. His songs were no longer limited to a few minutes at bedtime; they became endless oratorios worthy of a diva, and they started up at all hours. The other night I was rudely awakened at 2 am, and when I was finally able to fall asleep again an hour later, I dreamt of an angry cricket attacking me.

The last straw came yesterday, when he decided to move out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, taking up residence in a corner between some large furniture and the wall. Sneaky. I never realized how much the chirping of a cricket resembles the beeping of an alarm clock. High-pitched, insistent, perfectly-timed squeaks.

My friends have suggested various strategies to rid myself of my unwanted roomie. These have ranged from the bizarre ("get a loudspeaker and broadcast his song outside so that he can attract a mate and stop singing"), to the unpleasant ("squish him"), to the semi-practical ("catch him and sell him as a fighter").

Instead, I plan on adopting a hands-off policy. According to Wikipedia, crickets mate in late summer. That would be now. My only hope is that my little "friend" will realize that all of his musical wooing efforts are being wasted, since the only female in my room is me, and that he'll take his little show elsewhere.