During the recent heatwave, I didn’t wave back. It was too hot to be polite. My window air conditioner groaned to life like it had just woken up from a bad nap—with a serious case of bed head. It refused to cool the room unless I gave it an air shampoo first. I was half a degree away from booking it an appointment with an air stylist.
No matter how many times I sealed the window and serenaded it with “Kiss from a Rose,” a breeze still snuck in—along with the occasional uninvited guest.
One night, a ladybug dropped in unexpectedly. I hadn’t prepared for such elegant company. I was in the middle of making cheese quesadillas with a side of Sombrero Salad (mostly pasta wearing a hat), and I worried it wouldn’t meet her standards. But I needn’t have worried—the air conditioner immediately commandeered the sombrero garnish and wore it sideways like a rebellious teenager. Its new “airdo” looked more like an aird’oh.
With no ingredients on hand for something more refined—like Miteloaf or Aphid Alfredo with Basil Pesto—the ladybug gave me a long, judgmental stare and buzzed off without even touching the salad. But not before leaving a scathing Yelp review.
Not that it’s my first. One grub complained that I wasn’t on Grubhub and gave me one star for “inconvenience.” And a moth said the overhead lighting was too distracting and claimed he ordered Macaroni and Tweed but got spaghetti and mothballs instead.
I try not to let lousy feedback bug me—but I had higher hopes for the ladybug.
It’s fine. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a real lady anyway—more like a boy bug in shin guards pretending to be a midfielder.
Next time, I’m only taking reservations from gentlemantises. Preferably ones who call ahead, bring their own utensils, and don’t judge me for dressing my pasta.