There are moments in life that make you realize how un-adult you are. Sometimes it’s a large event like going to Disneyland. I’ve been. Sometimes it’s getting that easy-bake oven you’ve wanted since you were five. I had one so I’m good. So were the cakes. Every now and then it’s something simple and horrifying. A cockroach.
For my money there is nothing more terrifying than a cockroach- no matter the size- and I don’t care what kind it is, how rare it is or how nice it might look with rhinestones and a leash (thanks Tyra Banks for THAT nightmare fuel). A roach is a roach and unless it’s the ass end of a joint that bastard has to die. The un-adult problem starts once it’s dead because then I have a tiny icky body to dispose of and no husband or sister around to take care of it for me. So here I am with a dead cockroach that needs disposing of and I’m alone.
The solution was a well placed paper towel and the trashcan pressed against the counter. Well, to be honest it also involved my dish gloves and a cardboard box so I wouldn’t have to touch the paper towels covering the bug as I slid the bastard bug into the trash.
Of course, the biggest problem with seeing and killing a roach is that it’s just the tip of the icky iceberg. Now I must clean, bleach and scrub every surface in my kitchen. This includes clearing out every drawer and cabinet , buying even more bug traps and spraying every crack with buggy death in a bottle. The only thing that would make it all better would be new PopD podcasts since I’ve recently re-read every Crusie novel and you can’t read while you scrub. I suppose I could get some books on tape, but a man reading Krentz is the best I’ve ever heard and frankly you haven’t lived until you’ve heard a man in his sixties reading the female dialogue in a sassy romance novel.