I hate visitors

Last night I was effectively avoiding all adult responsibilities. I was sitting in my rocking chair, watching TV, and typing on my computer. Yes, I can multi-task. I was also eating. Why wait until Friday to start the gorging?

I reached back to grab a piece of bread when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. Ladybug was already in bed. And it couldn't be her. I mean, this was to my right, and she would have had to come down the stairs that were to my left. I don't have a cat or dog or gerbil. I don't have a husband, boyfriend or significant other (despite Ladybug's recent efforts -- but that is another post). So....

I turn my head slowly and .... It was a roach about the size of a football. Fat girls can jump! I hate bugs. I hate bugs. I HATE bugs. I jumped out of the chair so fast that I have no actual memory of it. I gathered my thoughts...and my nerve. When I say that the roach is the size of a football I am, of course, exaggerating. A little. I am pretty sure that if I extended my hand, he would reach out and shake and introduce himself. In actuality he is about the size of a golf ball -- and I am not exaggerating.

I decide that I will pick up the bag that the bread is in and throw it outside. I am willing to sacrifice the bread. So I reached for the bag and the damn thing scurries out of the bag.

Lesson #1 -- roaches are fast little suckers.

I, of course, drop the bag and quickly back away from the table. He (and yes, I am just assuming it is a he -- I did not actually check anatomy) scurries under some straps I have on the table -- the straps that are to my car top carrier that I seem to have lost. I decide to kill him. I am an assassin. I go into the laundry room and look for bug spray. I must have bug spray. Nothing. I look under the sink. Nothing. I am worried at this point. What if the roach walks off while I am looking for the spray? Or, more importantly, what if he doesn't? And then I look in with the cleaning supplies. Yes, I have cleaning supplies. I own them. I try not to use them. And I find the bug spray.

I go back to the table. The thing is black. The straps are black. I think he is still hiding under them. But I am not moving the straps to find out. I am a wimpy assassin. So I point. And spray.

OH! It is not a mist. It is a water hose strength spray. And I hit him. And he turns tail and runs. Down the back of the table. Oh the sucker is not getting away. I reposition and spray. He is now on the rug and running. But I keep spraying. He is looking for a place to hide.

Lesson #2 - roaches may not be as stupid as I thought. If someone had been trying to kill me I would try to hide too.

I keep spraying. He now turns on me. He is racing toward me. I am 5'4" tall. He is about 1 inch tall. No, I did not measure him. He is running after me. He is trying to attack me. I am sure of it.

Lesson #3 -- roaches are aggressive.

I jump over him. He turns around and runs at me again. Maybe he is the assassin. And I am in trouble. But I keep spraying. He is slowing down. He is getting tired. He is dead. I hope. I get the dust pan, scoop him up, and throw him out the front door. I have decided to leave him there. I want all the other roaches to know this is the home of the roach assassin. Don't mess with me!

I look around the living room. I have sprayed the bread...the cheese... a few pictures of Ladybug... the lamp... the filing cabinet... the cedar chest... the rug... the floor near the front door... the rocking chair. Murder is messy.

Mean Mama