Monday, May 2, 2011

on bug battles and Mike being a wus (how's that for a title)

I wrote the below paragraph a few years ago and Mike told me to post today because, unfortunately, Saturday morning we experienced a very similar situation.  Except this Saturday there were two sightings of large bugs in our apartment, not just one, but the linking factor is that the first one was, and I cringe as I type this, on my foot.  The cockroach was on my foot.  I yelled and tried to shake it off (in the Spring after the exterminator visits our building they come out of the wall to die and so it was not moving quickly), Mike jumped up on to the couch and started to scream profanities and directions for killing it while I ran to the kitchen, whimpering in disgust, to get the Raid.  Some things have not evolved in our relationship:

Saturday night.  Mike was at the computer.  I was standing in front of the tv trying to get the phone to work.  Something tickled across the top of my foot.  ‘Mike, what was that?’.  As if, from 8 feet away, he would know.  No answer.  Walk over to the overhead light. Turn on.  ‘Mike, do you see anything’.  He looks around ‘no’, and then out of the corner of his eye he must have seen it because within seconds he was out of the chair, across the room in one jump, and squealing like…I can’t even think of a proper simile here.  The cockroach was about the size of my hand (I exaggerate only a little) and all I could hear was Mike screaming for me to get something to spray it with, as he grabbed the tennis racket that’s never once been used for its actual purpose.  I ran to the bathroom.  Febreeze, Lysol, a can of the death Raid…for some reason, I chose the febreeze.  (Now I must interject: if this had been a normal sized insect, a paper towel and a kind ‘shoo” out the door would have sufficed.  But left to its own devices I think this thing would have learned how to program my remote control and subsequently taken over the apartment).  Back in the room. Mike’s on the offense now, crouching under the bed to shoo it out.  What followed was not for the weak of heart.  Carnage, hollers, lots and lots of febreeze spraying.  In the end, victory. And a sweet smelling room.

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