Normally since it’s Friday I’d do a Flashback, but I can’t because I have things on my mind. Or more accurately, my kitchen floor. (Conservative family be warned: very, very naughty language ahead.)

Motherfucking bugs. Tom had to explain to me that life in the tropics would likely contain roaches, and I understood and accepted this. I understood that this could never possibly happen to me and accepted that as stone-hard fact. I understood it the way Glenn Beck understands liberals, the way Sarah Palin understands geography, an understanding that holds no basis in reality.

We have roaches. And ants. And little bitty geckos that jump out of my entertainment center and scare the shit out of me.

The roach thing bothers me the most, because to me roaches = living in filthy squalor = unworthy housekeeper = unfit mother and overall waste of a human. My house is the cleanest it has ever been, y’all, and still they exist. Pregnancy and the baby awoke the inner scrubber within me and my home is spotless, mopped and dusted and wiped clean enough to shine. I have wreaths, how could anyone so homey have roaches? And yet I do.

Immediately I enlisted Tom as my hostage on a bug-killing crusade, storming the bathroom and kitchen like Patton. We started with mixtures of tea tree oil and peppermint soap, progressing to dishes of powdered sugar laced with baking soda, anything that wouldn’t harm the baby (who never goes near the kitchen baseboards). We wanted to be naaaatural. Now after a few weeks of that crap I’m running around my kitchen, throwing out poisoned roach bait like miniature Frisbees and examining cracks with a full can of Raid screaming “Banzai!” when I see one of my enemies, the better to blast that little bug right on home to Jesus.

At least the geckos are cute. They used to startle me, but apparently they eat bugs. We have lazy geckos, then, because we still have bugs. What the hell, geckos?! Pull your goddamn weight if you want to live in my DVD tower, damn. This isn’t a free hotel.

Tom finds this all somewhat distressing, but more so the ants than the roaches. He’s used to giant fist-size specimens that dwell in Florida whereas we had black ants growing up in Maine along with an annual infestation of ladybugs. Ladybugs are cute. Not a damn thing cute about a roach scuttling up my cupboards. Now I’m washing dishes before I use them, staging sneak attacks in the night hoping to catch a few that have ventured forth.

In short, I am losing my fucking mind and killing my few remaining brain cells with Raid vapor.

It doesn’t happen often, but in times like this I wish for the subzero temperatures of Canada. And a functional staff of geckos. Fucking slackers.


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