Welcome to my Love Canal

The minute I clicked "publish" on this post, I realized my mistake. I could practically hear the boners springing up all across the internet among the thirty-and-under set. So if you've arrived here expecting a virtual tour of my nether regions, you'll be sorely disappointed. And I respectfully suggest that you'll find something far more to your liking at, say, the Maxim website or perhaps skanks.com. :-)

The Love Canal to which I'm referring is the infamous 1970's housing development in Niagara Falls, NY that was constructed on top of a toxic dump site. And I only mention it today because, thanks to one of my oh-so-brilliant suggestions, the Birdhouse Tree House resembles it far more than I care to admit.

Now if I may, allow me to create for you a mental picture of the setting in which this blog takes place. My husband and I live in Dallas in a remarkably McMansion-free neighborhood near White Rock Lake, about 5 miles east of downtown but worlds away from the tv show, whether it be the prime time "Dallas" circa 1978  or the new "Most Eligible Dallas" with its self-involved $30K-a-year "millionaires" who possess no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

Our quaint Hill Country-inspired house sits on a treed, half-acre lot bordered on one side by what was once a gorgeous limestone creek.  Long before we ever bought the place, the city decided that, thanks to its propensity for flash flooding, this creek would be much better if it were made of concrete, so the tree house now overlooks a feature we lovingly refer to as "the culvert" because the term "ditch" isn't nearly as picturesque.

Thanks to a shallow stream of water that meanders through the culvert during all but the worst of droughts, a variety of creatures frequent its precise, 45-degree banks. On any given day, you'll find finches, dove, ducks, hawks and other various species dropping by to grab a bath and a bite. In the evening, this channel acts as a thoroughfare for wandering toads, tomcats, possum, raccoons and the occasional runaway criminal suspect.

At one point, we even had a feral pig roaming the neighborhood, which I spied exiting the creek one night on my way home from a business happy hour and was afraid to mention to my husband lest I be forced to concede that I was much drunker than I'd originally thought. Fortunately, he saw the beast with his own eyes the next day, so I didn't have to swear off the joy juice. And I'm happy to report that today, I remain the same jocular ball of hilarity I've always been after 5 pm. 

Hah. I said "jocular ball." For all you porn seekers who stuck it out this far, as it were.

Hovering as it does above the edge of the culvert, the Birdhouse Tree House has inspired much interest from the local fauna. In addition to the kamikaze cardinal I mentioned in my last post, this past spring, after the deepest snowfall in Dallas' recorded history, I discovered raccoon prints all along the foot-wide ledge that surrounds the base of the structure. Apparently this accidental tourist wasn't too impressed with the view until he leapt up to the windowsills, whereupon he became so thrilled that he peed himself. Twice.

And one night, when the wind blew the door open, a particularly fearless squirrel entered my private domain and embarked on a torrid romance with my prettiest fingertip towel. Sadly, the relationship didn't last.  But according to People Magazine, the two remain friends.

As I'm sure you can tell by now, the Birdhouse Tree House is a relatively idyllic place.  In fact, it might be damned near perfect if it weren't for the multitude of creepy-crawly things that seem to operate under the notion that they own the frickin’ place.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, there is a real live tree running through the middle of the thing. And considering that the space is air conditioned and regularly unpopulated at night, I can understand how the bugs might have mistakenly believed that God had finally answered their prayers and brought them the awesome vacation villa they've been asking for all along.

But the fact is, Texas tree roaches are the size of small dogs with carapaces thick enough to deflect the hollow point bullets that the local drug dealers prefer. And I have no doubt that, should one happen upon me after I'd been inadvertently lulled to sleep by the heat, it would be feasting on my eyeballs before I could utter the words "Silence of the Lambs."

So you can hardly blame me when, during a routine visit from the home exterminator, I innocently suggested that he treat the Birdhouse Tree House as well, having no idea that in doing so I was releasing the modern day equivalent of mustard gas. 

This morning when I opened the door, I stepped into a scene that can only be described as Tree Roach Gettysburg.

Now I’m not sure what that chemical was, but apparently it doesn't just kill the roaches but also blows their legs off for good measure. Which makes it far more difficult for the poor sap—and by that, I mean me—who has to sweep up afterward. I would not be terribly surprised if, in the very near future, I grow a third arm or an additional head.  And I half suspect that by tomorrow morning, a HAZMAT team will be traipsing through my house and tsk-tsking me through their Darth Vader ventilators.

I'm not sure what kind of paperwork I'll have to do to qualify as a Superfund site, but I’ll be looking into it because I smell grant money. Until then, if you represent the EPA, Greenpeace or Texans to Save the Tree Roaches, please contact my attorney directly.