STRANGER THAN FICTION: FLORIDA'S BUG PROBLEMS MAKE ME WANT TO `FLEA'

Man against bug has become an all-out war here.

There's an American trend that's stretched over the years, and I just don't understand it.

When folks up north get sick and can't stand the cold, they tell their relatives and perhaps their doctors. Those friends and doctors say, "Move to a warmer climate. How about Florida?"

"Great!" the folks say, so they load up their medication, their oxygen tanks and their yippy little dogs and come to Florida.

Why does this happen?

Sure, the beaches are the greatest, but this is the most germ-ridden state in the union. Because nothing freezes in Florida, no undesirable creature ever dies. Residents are caught up in an eternal fight against mildew, sinus trouble -- which The Other Half and I already discovered -- and BUGS. Lots and lots of 'em.

Roaches are a year-round problem. Our apartment complex hires a guy who comes in once a month to spray. When I say "comes in," I mean he just comes right into the apartment. I discovered that one morning when I skipped work, slept in my unmentionables and decided to ignore the doorbell.

"Love bugs" are predominant in the spring. They have short life spans, spending their entire few weeks of existence mating and throwing themselves against Florida windshields. Ick.

It's summer now -- flea season. And we've got 'em.

The Other Half made the discovery -- one jumped up his white shirt as he sat watching TV. We glared at Romy and Bosco, knowing their irresistible kitty fur was the cause.

Thing is, the Dynamic Duo never set foot outdoors. The closest they'd come was a screened-in porch.

Mr. Half absolutely LOST HIS MIND over our little problem. We had company coming the following week, and there was no way our FBVs (Flea-Bitten Varmints) were going to make the visit unpleasant. At 2 a.m., he took off for a major discount department store chain and returned with roughly $5,000 worth of flea-fighting chemicals.

Then the madness truly began. With me and the FBVs still sitting on the couch, he starting flinging flea-killing carpet sprinkle like it was powdered sugar. "Stop it! Please! Stop it!" I coughed, fearing my neighbors would find me on my back, my legs and arms in the air like an exterminated roach.

I had to wrestle the flea bomb out of his hands.

When Mr. Half's madness finally passed, we sprayed the FBVs with flea poison and thought out our battle plan for a full frontal attack after our company left.

It came on the Fourth of July. That's right. Independence Day.

Sporting my sexy yellow dishwashing gloves, I gave the cats the scrubbing of their lives. Blood was shed -- my blood, but the resulting mass of floating fleas was most satisfying.

We loaded them into their disinfected carrying cage and readied them for a trip to a safe haven. More carpet sprinkle followed and then, cats in hand, we set off the bombs and made for the door.

Three hours later, we returned to our flee-free-but-stinking home.

On the Fifth of July, I sat down with Romy and Bosco to enjoy a few summer reruns. I saw a little black dot jump onto my shirt. ARGH!

It gave me a great idea for a TV commercial.

(Fade in. A young couple sits on their living room couch, looking distraught. The fat-but-cute-in-a-certain-way wife turns to her husband with tears in her eyes.)

WIFE: Honey, nothing seems to be working for us. It's time we called it quits and ...

HUSBAND: Don't say it, Jane!

WIFE: Yes, I'll say it! It's time we called Flea-B-Gone!

(Camera zooms into carpet, where cartoon flea flashes big, to-heck-with-'em grin. Fade out.)

I don't have the long version worked out yet, but it will end with hundreds of fleas begging the couple for mercy with their dying breaths. The young couple will ignore them, instead sipping Long Island ice teas while petting their flea-free cats.

Heidi Nieland, a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian, resides in Pensacola, Fla.