Cockroaches

So, it’s spring here in Texas.

Or rather, it’s the months that (for the rest of the world) usually signal Spring, but in Houston mean simply that it’s either hot, raining, or both.

This happens to be the eternal wake-up-call for all the cockroaches living here. I’ve killed two in the bathrooms this week. And I think Charlie may have found one. Either that, or he was absurdly fascinated with attempting to get under the bathroom sink cabinet for some other inane reason.

He *is* a cat, after all.

Anyway – the resurgence of the roaches reminded me of a story. A story that I can’t help but think about every time I see a roach, even if it’s just a little roach.

Be warned – this isn’t for the squeamish.

Flashback 6-8 months to last fall. Same apartment, same husband, only one cat (Max). My parents were in town, and we were going to go visit one of the museums for a exhibit on ancient Chinese artifacts and metalworking. (this has nothing to do with roaches.)

So I was up pretty early for a Saturday, probably 7:30am or so. I get up, hop in the shower, do the usual shower thing, rinse the last vestiges of conditioner from my hair, wring it out thoroughly, and grab my hair towel. I have one of those towel-turban thingies that I made myself from an old bathtowel, since the commercial towel-turban thingies are useless when you have hair that’s long enough to get stuck in the waistband of your pants.

Anyway. I grab my hair towel, lump it over my head, twist it around at the nape of my neck, and go to fasten it with a little clippy thing on top of my head… at which point, a 3.5 inch cockroach crawls out from UNDER THE TOWEL. It proceeds to scutter DOWN MY FACE, around my neck, and down my back.

I made very interesting noises at this point.

Then I realized that I was still in the shower. And so was the roach. It sat, on the floor of my shower, twittering it’s little furry antennae at me. We stared each other down for a moment. There was no way in hell I was stomping him with my bare foot, shower or no shower, and he knew it.

So I called in reinforcements.

Me: “Hun….? Can you, uh… get me a flipflop?”
Husband: <pause> “Why exactly do you want a flipflop in the shower?”
Me: “If you don’t bring me a flipflop, I will make you kill the roach.”

The flipflop was forthcoming.

Now, let me give you a mental image. Me, in the shower, towel flung on the shower floor, water still running, hair dripping everywhere, flinging obscenities and a flipflop as I attempted to murderize the roach that had so ruined my morning.

Murderization successful, I then realized I was now in the shower with a dead roach and a lot of roach guts too big to fit through the hair-catcher in the drain. My memory of this isn’t as clear as the above point, but I”m pretty sure I corralled it with some toilet paper and flushed what I could, and then bleached the shower.

And took another shower.

Fortunately, the rest of the day was much less eventful.