Where's Linda Blair when you need her?

I need a young priest and an old priest.

My house is possessed. Or perhaps infested is a better term.

Here's the deal. I hate bugs, creatures, jumpy things, birds, frogs, snakes, mice, vermin and too many other parts of "nature" to mention here.

Those of you who have known me for a long time know that I grew up on a farm and might find this a little odd, but here's my explanation - I got enough of that before I turned 13 that I'd prefer not to deal with it now.

When we lived in the condo, it was fine. The only nature I came into contact with was the occasional bird on the fire escape. Oh, and one cockroach that fell off a chair that had been in a storage unit for months, but Tony squished that and I spent the rest of the night rocking in a corner, mumbling.

But then we got all suburban. We HAD to move to a piece of property on a lake. We HAD to invite nature right up to the back door of the house. What the hell were we thinking?

My first inkling that this new house was going to be a torture chamber for me came early on. The lake is a breeding ground for frogs. LOTS of frogs. I've been terrified of frogs since I was an infant, I believe. They jump, people. Anything that jumps has the element of surprise, and that freaks me out. I constantly envision frogs jumping off the roadway into my face, maybe into my mouth, which is so horrible to contemplate that I'm going to have to close my eyes right now for a moment and visualize Brad Pitt in "Legends of the Fall." HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

Okay, I'm back. But you get my point. Mom and I made the mistake last time she was here of going for a walk after dusk, and there were frogs every 10 inches on the road, the grass and the sidewalk. I FREAKED OUT. I practically made my 62-year-old mother carry me home on her back so I would be protected from the jumping scourge.

Things got worse this fall, though. The terror came inside my house, in the form of spiders. We were invaded a few weeks ago. I was calmly watching a movie in the downstairs media room when I saw a spider the size of my smaller dog marching along the carpet. (That would be eight pounds, for those of you keeping track.) You've never seen a grown woman scale a bean bag chair so fast. For weeks, I've been doing spider patrols every time I go in the basement. I turn on all the lights, flick blankets, shake pillows and stomp and shout.

Tony finally convinced me that he could safely spray the windowsills and empty storage spaces in the basement and our baby wouldn't have tumors and the dogs, who aren't even allowed down there, wouldn't die horribly foamy-mouthed deaths from spider poison. It worked. Now my basement carpet is littered with spider carcasses, but since I can't be sure they are actually dead, I'm not touching them. They might just be trying to sucker me in and bite me. I once saw someone (okay, it was Mom) who got a spider bite on her eyelid and because it was so poisonous, she nearly lost her eye. No joke, the necrosis ate through her eyelid. It was like a horror film. (She's fine now.)

But now, to add insult to injury, they've invaded my attic. The last few nights, Tony and I have awoken to the sound of scrabbling in the ceiling of the master bedroom. Talk about waking up in a cold terror. We've figured out it is just the birds who like to sit on the downspout and have someway made their way into the attic. We don't use the attic for anything and I'm sure as heck not going to now, but it is seriously terrifying. I keep having visions of being trapped in a phone booth, being pecked to death, a la Tippi Hedren. (Google it, kids.) Birds have the ultimate element of surprise. They are silent, flying, pooping deliverers of death. You think Legionnaire's disease wasn't domestic terrorism on the part of the birds?

The only solution, I've decided, is to move into someplace really industrial, like Beijing. I bet they don't have frogs and spiders and invasive birds there. Sure, I might end up with black lung, but that is an enemy I can see and fight. Until then, I'm sleeping in a HAZMAT suit with big earplugs. Oh, and walks are definitely out. I'm only leaving the house in the comfort and safety of my Mini Cooper.

Unless someone knows a priest willing to do an exorcism. I'm open to that option.