tcsa

Gak

Want to know a secret? Come closer.... closer. Bend down here and let me whisper:
I have a phobia.

I know, I know, it's hard to believe anything could get to me enough to even ruffle my feathers, let alone become something as official as a Phobia. Mine has the grandious title "Entomophobia". Fear of bugs.

I can't remember when I wasn't afraid of bugs. Oh, it's not all bugs. I can't quite commit to that. I like butterflies, and ladybugs (fly away home) and spiders creep me out a bit but don't make me shriek like a little girl and run away. I save that special honor for grasshoppers, crickets, praying mantises, katydids, things like that.
I had a cricket land on my face and bound away. I cried for two hours and nearly scrubbed the skin off my nose.

Everyone who really knows me, knows about this phobia. Some, like my dad, brusquely dismiss it as being all in my head and ignore my terror when one of the Damned Things comes anywhere near me. Others, like the GM1, humor my fears and help me tear the pages out of the new issue of National Geographic featured famous bugs of the Congo. A few think it's funny enough that they sneakily place a grasshopper on my shoulder and gleefully wait for the fireworks.
They're all dead now.

Never has my phobia been made so public as when I visited Parrot Jungle in Miami.

I'd gone to Florida to visit my friend Bob, and in a quest to keep me amused, he decided we should go to Parrot Jungle.
I've never really considered birds a big attraction. Maybe it's jealousy, because they can fly and I can't. Maybe it's the proliferation, because most of them look just like the other most of them. Maybe it's all the poop on my car.

To my happy surprise, I really enjoyed Parrot Jungle. I fed huge squawking parrots little bits of treat and wasn't chomped on once. I held a giant macaw like a baby, cradled in my arms. I "talked" to a Mardi Gras-colored thing that mocked my accent.
Then we went to The Show.

A few times a day, the Parrot Jungle staff trots out a few of its creatures that don't have feathers, like frogs and snakes. They invite members of the audience up front to hold some of these beasties.
I love snakes, did I mention this?
I had, up until we moved to Hawaii, a ball python named Carlyle, who I'd raised from a baby. When we parted ways, Carlyle was twelve years old and four feet long. I adored him and he returned the sentiment. I could tell because he never tried to strangle me. Unlike some exes I could mention.
But I digress.
So when I saw they were going to show off a huge python at the Parrot Jungle show, I wanted to be the one to hold it. It was a giant, squirmy, mega-Carlyle. It brought out the Sigfried and Roy side of me. When they asked for volunteers from the audience, I was on my feet.

They chose four of us and lined us up. We were told to hold out both our hands and close our eyes. I waited for my share of about one hundred pounds of snake.
I waited.
I waited.
I felt something considerably less weighty land in my hands as the trainer said "Now, open your eyes."
It wasn't anything like a snake.
It was a Madasgascar Hissing Cockroach.

I was told later they heard me scream clear out in the parking lot. I take great pride in the fact that I didn't fling the nasty thing to the ground and
stomp it to bits. (Mainly because I was wearing sandals and didn't want squishage on my toes.) I stopped screaming when they took the cockroach,
all three inches of it, out of my hand.
"Not quite what you expected, huh?" laughed the trainer.
I puked on him.

I've never been back to Parrot Jungle. And I buy a lot of Raid.

Cheesy thanks to Anna for jogging my memory.

Posted by LeeAnn at September 5, 2003 08:31 AM