Answer: No. No, thank you. Really.
You have to imagine that answer as FERVENT. And by fervent I mean....okay pretend you are suddenly woken from a dead sleep, late late in the night. You are alone in your bed. A man is standing over you and he has swirling eyeballs and long, pendulous drool strings and a blow torch. He says, "Would you like to be set on fire?" And you say, "No. No, thank you. Really." Fervently.
See how it is now?
And yet I had one this morning. A roach. In my dishwasher. Clickety-clicking around the outskirts of my dirty coffee cup when I went to put in soap. AND MY HUSBAND HAS LEFT ME. For THREE WEEKS. To work in VEGAS. *spits*
Scott is my officially designated roach-killer, certified by God and assigned to me by the federal government with the understanding that I can not DEAL WITH THE EXISTENCE OF ROACHES much less interact with them forcefully and then dispose of their twitching, clicky bodies with the long feelers and the racheted leg hairs and the NO VISIBLE EYEBALLS *gives self the wig*
My first impulse was, of course, to simply close the dishwasher and not open it again for 3 more weeks. And not go in the kitchen. Or the downstairs, really, in fact, we could just live on the back deck inside a protective ring of citronella candles and Combat roach motels. But I realized that was nto a viable option because the deck has SLATS and roaches could come up through them and touch me as I was sleeping. So the dishwasher roach had to go.
I turned and grabbed the COMBAT SPRAY off the top of the fridge and when I turned back around to face the dishwasher he was GONE. Maybe inside the coffee cup. Maybe out the washer altogether. In a PANIC I started spewing Combat all over my DISHES, breathing in clouds of noxious burnt-sugar fumes as I gunned half the the can onto the dishes my children EAT off of, but I didn't think of THAT until every one of them was glistening with a fresh, shiny coat of virulent poison.
SO. I slammed the door and ran the dishwasher. When it got finished I found the roach in the strainer thing. Drowned or poisoned or drowned in poisonous waters, who cares. Limp and dead. JUST HOW I LIKE 'EM. I got a wad of about 57 paper towels and screamed the whole time I was plucking him out of there and running outside and shoving him and the paper towel wad deep deep into the foul outside trashcan. Then I ran the dishwasher again to get the taint of roach water off the dishes, and then AGAIN because, you know, poison, and children eating, and I just now finished running it a fourth time for sheer neurosis.
I am currently drinking a cup of coffee using a formerly-poison-coated cup. So. If this is my very last blog entry, you won't have to ask why. BUT should I by chance LIVE, I wanted it noted for the record that I KILLED A ROACH ALL BY MYSELF and this is HUGE, this is an ACCOMPLISHMENT. I strongly feel I deserve some sort of parade and maybe a tiara or a plaque. Perhaps a generous cash award. Whatever those Nobel guys get.Posted by joshilyn at April 11, 2004 4:04 PM