Me: “EEEEEEEE! A scorpion!”
Scotty: “What do you want me to do?”
Me: “KILL it!”
Tuscany is not only our new home, it’s also home to Scorpions.
The computer says the types here are “harmless:” their stings are no worse than a bee or a wasp. I know about them. I grew up with them in Indiana. I speak their language. I have no problem capturing one under a glass and carrying it outside to safety. In my whole country-kid life, I’ve only been stung twice (and once was as an adult while I was conducting a live TV news interview in Washington, but that’s another story).
But scorpions? I didn’t grow up with them. I’ve never lived in a place with their kind. I don’t speak their language. Maybe I’m a xenophobe, or maybe it has something to do with the 80’s German heavy metal band, but I was afraid.
And then it happened. It was about 10:00 pm.
I thought it was a black barrette. I walked over to it, in my bare feet, of course, and reached down to pick it up. There were only about six inches between my outstretched fingers and that ‘barrette.’
“EEEEE!!” I screamed!
Scotty, who was barefoot, too, grabbed his boots. In an instant, there was an icky crunch. I handed him a bunch of paper towels while I turned the other way and squinched my eyes shut.
Then I felt sheepish. I mean, it was only the size of a fifty cent piece. They’re not supposed
to be worse than a bee. I never kill bees. I don’t know.