Small Victories

You know what really gives you the confidence to face a sleepy Monday morning?  Picking on something smaller than you.

Sometimes pushing a snotty child around will do the trick when you're in a really bad mood.  And you're a sociopath.  That's not what I did this morning.

No, this morning I Raid-ed the crap out of another cockroach.  I know, I know, I've been writing a lot about my vermin problems--almost exclusively lately.  I know this must be gross for you.  But it has become a trend.  And I promise it will soon stop.  But the reason I write about it is because it is a big, disgusting deal for me, and writing often helps me process my emotions--including revulsion, disgust and gag-acity.

But, as I said, this will soon cease, as, I hope, my emotional turmoil at the sight of a mouse/roach/spider will soon abate.  I am making progress.

This morning, I walked into my bathroom to find, not the mutant-roach of two weeks ago, but a little baby roach crawling on my sink.  Roaches are always gross, keep in mind, no matter the size.

I did not shreik.  I did not gag.  I did not hysterically call Andrew and half-seriously ask him to come over and kill it for me.  I did none of these things.  Instead, I picked up the hairbrush near which is was crawling, walked out of my bathroom sighing "sonuvabitch" and headed to the kitchen to find my Raid.

Yes, that is right!  Just a sigh of resignation and the actual memory that I possessed roach spray.  Last time, I needed to be gently reminded that I had killer foam and did not need to tape a plastic cup (of which I have none) to the wall in order to suffocate the bastard.

Halfway through the living room, I recalled that I now keep my Raid on the shower ledge.  This may be a bit yucky, but my two roaches have both been in the bathroom and, as that is the closest room to the front door through which I am convinced these roaches scuttle, it seems to make sense.

Back into the bathroom I headed, and grabbed that Raid.  I may or may not have spun it around my finger, and crouched, one hand flat and blade-like by my ear, the other hand extended, lethal spray in hand.

Truth: I may not have done that.

Instead, I grabbed the can, directed the nozzle at the offensive little interloper and let loose a spray of foam forceful enough to knock the bugger off the sink and into my trash can.

How convenient!  I continued to spray until the toilet paper rolls and tissues in the can were a soggy mess, then reach downed and tied the back tight, gripped it in two finger tips and set the bag, and roach out in the hall from whence it came.  On my way to work, I flung that shizz in the garbage room outside.

And that is what happened.  In recap, here is what didn't happen: screaming, shrieking, crying, panicking, hyperventilating, hysterical-dialing, fainting, retching, shivering or rocking back and forth in the corner until someone else came to take care of it.

NBD.  I'm a New Yorker, y'all.  That's how we roll.