Saturday was a page out of a nightmare. I haven't been sleeping well lately (as in I'm sleeping between 20 and 90 minutes at a time), so that definitely could have been a factor. But believe me you, it was not the ONLY factor. I think the general consensus between my compadres and myself was that there were only two options upon leaving work...cry, or murder.
I walked home from work in my funk, took a nap (60 minutes. Not bad. At this point I'll just take what I can get) and woke up in time to put in a nice two hours at the gym.
I enter the bathroom in my apartment to grab my sports bra which I have a bad habit of hanging on the doorknob 90% of the time. The shower curtain is pulled back. I am NOT alone. I'm still in my funk and a not-so-nice term flies out of my mouth towards my unwelcome guest. I am faced with a crossroads here. Cry. Or murder. Now...let me give you some background on my relationship with roaches:
-First and foremost, I owe "Chris in Apt. 17" (as I refer to him) a cup of coffee, a drink, hell...a whole bottle of the finest liquor after apprehending him IN THE HALLWAY as he entered the building still in his super nice business suit with the question "are you afraid of bugs??" He handled my first roach issue in New York by chasing one around my shower for twenty minutes while I stood in my kitchen and hyperventilated.
-As you may recall from a post awhile back, I cut myself with the broken shards of a glass that lost it's life because I was startled by a roach early one morning before a shoot.
-About two months ago, after seeing three roaches (that's three too many) over the course of three weeks, I called the building exterminator. He told me in no uncertain terms to 'man up.' I kid you not.
-Last week my roommate found a roach lying on its back, appearing to be dead, in her room. I was bold and put a cup over it. A couple hours later I went to scoop it up (paper under the cup, transport to the toilet, flush, woes over). I didn't hear it fall, and upon 'dropping' it in the toilet, I found my little friend was NOT DEAD AT ALL and let out the most impressive Hollywood/Psycho scream I've ever witnessed. It put Janet Leigh to shame, dear readers...
And that brings us up to Saturday. I'm at a turning point: cry or murder. I vehemently deny myself the option to cry. Crying over a roach seems tantamount to crying over a boy. I don't cry over boys. Guess that leaves us at murder. I grab some Lysol and spray. The sweet smelling stream follows that bugger all around the tub, but he doesn't die. Fine. Two can play at this game. I've got some off-brand glass cleaner (ShopRite Glass & More, as pictured above! I'd recommend this for all your roach killing needs, not so much on glass cleaning needs though...) within arms reach, so I go for that. I spray and spray and spray. I'm getting lightheaded...this stuff is potent. And then all of a sudden something happens, the roach kind of stops and tips over. He wiggles his disgusting little legs for a moment (I am still spraying) and then...he's done. Based on the latest experience with a 'dead' roach, I am NOT convinced. I give him a few more blasts with my weapon of choice and then put a glass over him and go to the gym. This is my way of letting all his roach friends know that I have the upper hand here.
When I got home two and a half hours later (I'm fanatical about the gym), little buddy is truly, 100% dead. Success is mine as he is sucked into a watery grave.
I think I'm growing as a person.
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