My 4th Apartment's 1st Cockroach

It’s late. I’m exhausted. BUT I CAN’T SLEEP BECAUSE I CAME HOME AND THERE WAS A COCKROACH IN THE MIDDLE OF MY CARPET.

Granted, it’s a nice carpet.

I’ve never torn my room apart/cleaned my room so quickly. After picking up every article of clothing from my floor with a bent hanger, I then quickly (with trusty vacuum and Windex at the ready) moved my bed away from the wall, and then moved it back against the wall when I was relieved/annoyed that the bug had officially gone missing.

When the cockroach came back out of it’s hiding spot, I winced, squealed, and THREW the vacuum at the bug, hoping it would just be sucked up. It wasn’t, and then it ran into my closet, which I now refer to as “Home Base”.

I phoned my mother who I knew would tell me to “just kill it”. I phoned my friend who also told me to kill it, but more specifically suggested that I throw a textbook. Instead, I threw the only hardcover in my reach entitled, most appropriately, Cringe. When that failed, I threw a book about the South Beach Diet. DOUBLE FAIL…and why do I own that?

After living in New York City for 6 years, one would think I’d be a lot better about the whole cockroach thing. I’m not. This bug, roughly the size of some sort of commemorative coin, brings out the crazy in me. I start talking to it, asking for it to politely leave and not nest in my living space. I get paranoid and my skin crawls for hours. There is no question that I will go to sleep in the wee hours of the morning with the lights still on.

Most shameful of all is that this cockroach has a severe handicap. I’m not talking about the layout of my room, or how condensed my clutter is so that it can’t slip through and hide. I’m seriously talking about how this particular cockroach is handicapped. It moves really slow and stops to look around a lot. It does not like Windex or hairspray being sprayed at it, or vacuums being thrown in its direction. It should be dead. Instead, it’s taking a nap in Home Base while I blog about it.

My last crazy roommate never believed me when I saw a cockroach. I would say “I think there’s a cockroach under the fridge” and she would say “there isn’t” and go back into her room. The second time I saw one, she accused me of making them up. But I wasn’t! These cockroaches were NON-FICTION.

At least, my current crazy roommate believed me. He said, “I don’t know what you want me to do”, when really, I wanted him to man up and kill the cockroach. I almost went down and got the doorman, but instead, I decided to just stay put and hope it dies on its own. It’s been sprayed with enough Windex and hairspray to both clean and style a coif fit for an 18th century president, or in the very least, Lady Gaga.

When I finally pass out tonight, I’ll dream of a virile and giant warrior with no fear of disgusting bugs. He will wait amongst my pumps and purses in Home Base for the critter to stumble upon his greatness. This warrior will not throw vacuums or spray hair products to try and kill the bug from a distance. No, he will use a textbook as per a prior suggestion from a non-dream world where logic and reason apply. And once the beast is booked, I'll sleep soundly, dreaming of rainbows and theme parks in my own home base called bed.