When I moved down here to the South, I was ignorant of such simple gifts. I was beguiled by the sun and the palm trees and the beignets and the jazz. I loved (and still love) our little white apartment.
Then I was introduced to the nasty bug known as the cockroach. They exist everywhere, in all the homes, nice, new, old, in-between, you name it, a cockroach will go there. They are no respectors of persons. And curiously, my sister Jessica, who has for our entire lives been known as the "stronger, tougher, more capable" of the two of us, completely melts down in the presence of the bugs. It's the strangest thing. And now I, the sister-formerly-known-as-the-weaker-and-wimpier, have found my inner bada$$. I have become a cockroach murderess.
Quite the claim to fame, I know.
As I've posted before, we are very vigilent in our pursuit of keeping the apartment a cockroach-free zone. It is our top priority. (You know, along with world peace and making it to the celestial kingdon.) Just two days ago, I mentioned to Jessica that we were nearly due for another Raid-a-thon. She answered that we should spray again on October 3.
It's like they know. It's like they can tell that the toxic Raid defenses are getting low and now is the moment to seize the day and penetrate the Fortress of the Clean. Because this morning, shortly after my shower but well before I'd arrived at full alertness, I had a close encounter with the insect kind. And it was not ok. Dealing with humvee-sized cockroaches is never ok, but especially not at 6:55 in the morning.
He was just laying there, on his back, next the garbage can, feet in the air. I nearly made a rookie mistake and assumed he was dead, given his position. But Jessica has taught me well, and I've learned that no matter the state of the dead bug, whether it's newly dead or clearly reached the dusty potpourri stage, you give it a good smash to ensure that you are not picking up a live cockroach. My angle was bad this morning for smashing, so I decided to spray the cockroach with a nice soothing mist of Raid to ensure his timely demise.
He was not dead. Far from it. Apparently he had simply been napping and when the Raid starting raining down on him, he fought to get away. This morning could be known as the Battle for the Kitchen. For a moment it looked at though the cockroach's retreat would work, but then the brute force of the garbage can slamming down on him ended his rally.
I picked him up, tried not to vomit in my mouth (he was a juicy guy, full of grey and green guts) and primly deposited him in his final resting place: the toilet, where he was flushed away to his watery grave.
When dealing with these vermin, you must take a very Zen approach:
See the Raid. Use the Raid. Be the Raid. Otherwise....they know.