Geckos Ruined My Life

I hate geckos.  Don’t let those insurance commercials featuring the bug-eyed critter with the charming English accent fool you.  Geckos are the devil.  They ruined my Olympic dreams.  Three years ago I moved to Florida to pursue a half-baked idea my dream to ride horses competitively. 

I needed a fresh start, I needed a new challenge, I needed a new interest that would quickly drain every last cent of my divorce settlement and since I can’t drive a stick shift, fast cars and NASCAR were out of the question.  So, I turned to horses.  The fact that I was starting my pursuit of equestrian glory later in life than the snooty “I was born on a Hermes saddle” crowd did not deter me.  The fact that my bank account was so empty that it echoed when I opened my checkbook did not deter me.  It went something like, “Ha, ha, ha!  Ha, ha, ha!” Kinda like that creepy clown thing from the Saw movies.  And I tell you, trying to survive in the world of competitive horseback riding with little to no money was torture.

It wasn’t even the fact that during my first week of training the gigantic mare I was riding in an elevated ring decided that she just didn’t want me on her back anymore.  I was thrown, catapulted, launched a good seven feet outside the fence.  And at least six feet down the embankment.  Face down in a crumpled heap under the Florida sun, my trainer thought I was dead.  I heard her screaming into the phone for 911.  I remember thinking, “Oh my goodness, someone’s really hurt!” as I picked my battered and bruised but miraculously unbroken body off the sandy Florida ground.  And got back on that damn horse.  No, all this I could have overcome.  The snootiness, the poverty, the soft tissue injury and torn ligaments that still bother me to this very day (usually at mile two of a six mile run) were mere challenges. It was the geckos.  Those damn geckos.

As you can see in this photo below, those damn geckos are everywhere.  It ruined one of the few pictures of me on my horse:

Being a city girl I was accustomed to pigeons, squirrels, and even rats the size of subway cars.  But my encounters with city wildlife were limited to the outdoors.  They did not live constantly underfoot and squish sickeningly under my bare feet if I made a mad dash to the car to let my windows up during one of Florida’s incessant rain storms.  The pigeons, squirrels, and rats did not come into my apartment.  They did not cling precariously to the screen windows and make chirping noises that kept me awake all night long wondering if they could get inside.  Everyone, it seemed, delighted in telling me that it’s not “if” the geckos get inside your apartment, but “when.” These same asshats loved to tell stories about the time they were in the tub, cooking dinner, watching TV, or whatever you do in the safety and comfort of your own home when you are not expecting geckos to drop from the sky when a gecko does just that — drops from the sky.  These geckos are evil.  You can’t tell me that these fuckers that can cling to the side of buildings with the tenacity of cat hair on black pants suddenly lose all suction as they traipse across your living room ceiling.  Oh, no.  It’s just one of those gecko practical jokes. 

Rats and pigeons do not play practical jokes.  They may threaten to CUTCHU if you don’t turn over that crust of bread you are hoarding from lunch, but they are not joking.  They mean business so just hand over the bread.  Rats and pigeons also do not gross me out by licking their eyeballs.  I mean, really, who thought this was a good idea to make a creature with no eyelids and then plop it down in sandy, tropic climes.  So, to moisturize and clean their eyes, geckos lick their eyeballs.  How is this evidence of intelligent design?

Six months after arriving in Florida I was ready for my first riding competition.  I’ll have to tell you more about my riding experience some time.  It was incredible.  Jumping a fence (and in my case “fence” is used loosely, it was more like a speed bump) is what I imagine it’s like to fly.  But this post is about the geckos.  Those damn geckos.  I was talking on the phone to a friend, preparing a nice, tall glass of good ol’ sweet tea when she asked me about gators.  “I’ve only seen one or two gators since I’ve been here,” I said.  “But I tell you what, these geckos are everywhere.  The first time I see one in my house, I’m packing my bags and I’m outta here.” Those words had barely left my mouth, in fact, they were still making their way through the airwaves and had yet to land with dulcet tones upon my friend’s waiting eardrums when a big-assed gecko darts across the kitchen counter. 

Does it try to avoid me?  No. 

Does it see me and run the other way?  No. 

What does it do?  I’ll tell you what that eyeball-licking lizard did.  It ran right up my arm and stuck itself to my cold, refreshing glass of sweet tea.  As it was on my way to my mouth.  I don’t know whether it was my scream or contact with the wall that shattered the glass but I do know that the Florida Marlins called me the next day asking about signing some kind of contract.  Apparently, they’ve never seen anyone throw like that.  Sadly, I had to turn them down.  I had too much packing to do.

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