It's been a slow week, but I'm not talking about going commando, but rather being a commando.
You see, there was a cockroach in my house tonight when I got home from work. A cockroach. In. my. HOUSE!
Ryan, ever-so-helpful, pointed it out. "There's a bug by the tv in the wall unit."
"Bug" ---> a) lady bug; b)silverfish; c) cockroach large enough to see at twenty paces even though it is cleverly disguised in the same color as the wall unit.
I walk over, looking at the floor in front of the tv, as I have misunderstood him in my dread upon hearing the word "bug."
ACK! There it was, hip high in the wall unit, right next to the tv, mocking me, in a spot I could not hit gracefully. Considering the shovel-shaped dent in my garage from the Great Scorpion Smashing of 2004, I have to be careful with any display of strength near electronics, lest I break something. I foolishly attempted to swat it with a flyswatter, and of course it fell back behind the wall unit.
My kingdom for an industrial size can of Raid. Or a blowtorch.
I hate bugs. I do. I am a girl about it, too. Some bugs, I can handle on my own, but really, I'd rather not. Unfortunately, Mr W was already in bed, so I had to deal with this scourge, this threat, all by myself.
I'm always reminded of a story my Mom used to tell, in situations like this, of how she really hates spiders. "But one day, mija, I saw one in your room, and I put my fear aside and killed it myself, because when it comes to my kids or being afraid of a little spider, well...pfffft!" she'd gesture, in a sweeping spraying motion. "I wasn't about to let you get bit because I was afraid."
I have seen two cockroaches in three weeks. Please spare me the tales of how "you see one, there are a jillion more" because I just can't handle that kind of stress. I'll be calling the bug man, I can assure you.
At the moment, however, it was me vs. MegaRoach. I'd just sat down with some popcorn when Ben points at the wall, in the corner. "There it is!" he says.
I go find a good shoe to dispatch of it. And proceed to miss it. It feints, and I miss it. Repeatedly. Scurrying to and fro, it evades me as I rearrange dog crates, then sofa, then coffee table...."Mom, it's over here," Nolan says, pointing under the dining table.
By now I am breathing fire, when I realize I need a new approach. Mr W's workboot is just too awkward to swing.
I grab one of my chanclas, and as it makes it's way for the free open space of my kitchen (my kitchen!) I let loose a stream of curse words, following suit.
"He is DEAD," I remember muttering, as I skirted past Nolan and Ben to get at it.
"Die, you motherfucker," I hiss as I smack, smack, smack in rapid succession until it is mush and most definately dead. As I straighten up, I hear a huge outburst of laughter.
"Daaaang, Mom," Nolan said, "you KILLED it alright." Ben takes a knee and pretends to load a bazooka, mock firing into the kitchen, "You really blew that up," he laughs.
"Why did you do it like that?" they asked, just cracking themselves up with war-like analogies of my neutralizing method. "Look, if you don't kill it and get it good, it will keep scampering away; so you really need to go for it."
"Remember," Ryan said, "remember that dent she made in the garage with the shovel?" They laugh at me some more. "If you had Dad's gun, would you shoot it?" they ask.
"I would mount the little bastard on a stake outside my door as a warning to his cockroach brothers to stay the hell away from my house," I added, "if it would do any good."
"You were like a commando," Nolan chortled.
"Hey, my chancla is a deadly weapon."