And run in bare feet
Where the grass and the dirt and the gravel all meet
-- Keith Urban
I was on my cell when I got home yesterday. Of course I was. I was talking to Breezy and I went through my bedroom into my bathroom and was about to go into my closet and kick off my shoes. There it was – right in front of the closet door. A bug. Ok, no point in lying, not just a bug, a freaking roach. Ugh.
Now, because Breezy had to deal with my girliness and squeamishness about bugs in college, I was trying to play it all cool, you know, make her think I was so OVER the whole bug thing in general. So I said, “Well, that’s nice, here’s a bug.” And I kept talking. We continued our conversation as I went back into the living room and picked up the latest
In Style and calmly walked back into the bathroom. Fortunately, the thing hadn’t moved an inch. I warned Breeze about the forthcoming noise and promptly dropped the magazine on it. It was a goner. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Mental note – call tomorrow and schedule pest control service like your mother told you to do, oh back in
September.
I hate bugs. Hate them, hate them, freaking hate them. I can’t get over it. I just can’t. That’s an innate part of the irrational fear structure in my brain. Sorry, I’m a baby. But at least I’ve learned how to deal with it and move on.
Or so I thought.
So as the 10:00 news came on I picked up a stack of towels and went to my bathroom to place them in the linen closet and - wait for it, you know its coming and I know you know its coming – I opened the door and low and behold, behind door number one is freaking roach number two and spider number one.
SERIOUSLY? A spider, too? The hair on the back of my neck literally stood up. I immediately grabbed the first thing I could and smashed the spider. Of course the roach went nuts and headed back into the closet. I was literally sweating now. “How is this helpful?? Are there more roaches in here? If I move this crap in the bottom of the closet will 718 more roaches come out?” I begin to panic. Literally panic.
Jerry O’Connell popped into my mind. I could see his cute little face and remember the scary ass trailer for his movie
Joe’s Apartment. It used to creep me out. I believe I actually had nightmares about it. I had a feeling this roach that was currently on the loose in the closet wasn’t about to talk to me but what if it had more friends in there with it? Oh lord, this would be so much better if Jerry O'Connell was here.
Now I was both sweating and having chills at the same time. “You’re insane Amy, you’re insane, it’s just a little bug, it can’t hurt you, kill IT!” I began to argue with myself – “But, but, they carry DISEASE don’t they? I can totally get sick and die from some roach illness and worst of all, everyone will say, poor Amy, bless her heart, if she’d only called the Orkin man like her momma told her, none of this would have happened.”
Sweating, swearing and chills – and no bug poison in the house, mind you, I grab the first thing I see in the closet – a can of Lysol. What are you going to do with Lysol, moron? I scan the back ever so quickly and convince myself it just might work because it kills viruses and bacteria. I’m sure the roach was a walking wad of both of those things. I begin spraying like a mad woman – the roach went nuts and ran between a box and a bucket thing that holds lotions, etc. I couldn’t catch him. Ok, so this is how you want to play? You want to play me this way?? I back away long enough to pull my hair back and get a pair of rubber gloves. I also picked up a duster thing on this pole that my mom gave me. Now, I’m ready, bitch, I’m ready to smack down the roach. Trouble is I don’t see him.
What do I do? What do I do? Thought of my mom again, “Amy, what do you want me to do? I’m all the way up here and you’re there. Stop worrying about it and go to bed.” That’s totally what she would have said. Then I thought of Grace. And how I had mercilessly made fun of her our freshman year in college because she spent an entire night awake, with the light on, bug spray in hand, because a roach appeared and then disappeared before she could get it. This is what I get. Pay back, well, you know what they say.
Wanting to puke, I realize I must move the stuff in the bottom of the closet and find him. I gingerly reach for the bucket and pull it out. No roach. I reach for the other box and pull it out. No roach. I sprayed the Lysol in the bottom of the closet. No roach. I sprayed the corners, even up the walls a bit. No roach.
Seriously? Where did it go? There’s no way it got past me and into my bedroom is there? OMG – tell me it didn’t get past me! More sweating and chills. Now I’m also getting high off the Lysol. I quickly scan the back and the only human precautions are skin and eye irritants. So my sinuses will be Powder Fresh or whatever tomorrow. So what? Maybe the little roach will die from Lysol asphyxiation. And here’s hoping I wouldn’t have to call in the following day with a Lysol induced migraine.
Disheartened, I reluctantly wave the proverbial white flag and begin placing the crap back in the closet. Oh, it’s not going to be a good night, what with visions of bugs in my head… Yuck, yuck, yuck.
My bug man is coming on Thursday morning to kick some bug butt. Here’s hoping their won't be another sighting in the meantime…
