I was going to write about New York Fashion Week, and then something decidedly un-fabulous happened instead.
I have a bug problem. It's ugly. We may need to enlist higher assistance here. Maybe magic? Maybe an exorcism? I don’t know. But things are getting desperate.
I've done plenty of research. I know more about the roach lifecycle than anybody could care to know. I've come to know, intimately well, the joy of nailing one of 'em with a direct line of bug spray and watching its frantic run become a dying twitch. And, I mean, I'm not exactly a germphobe or crazy when it comes to bugs. Generally, if you have a house, you're going to have some bugs in it.
I have a really nice symbiotic relationship with spiders, for example. They eat pests. They keep to themselves. We don't bother each other, and as long as the critters stick to the deal, they can live. The roaches, though? I can't leave dishes in the drainer for even ten minutes, because the damn bugs scurry all
over them in an instant. This isn't their space, it's mine, and the penalty for screwing with that is death.
I’ve been keeping my dishware and my food in plastic bins, right on top of the kitchen table, for at least three months. All right. I’m not the cleanest of people. In fact, I’m quite the clutterbug. We’re not talking nastiness here, just clutter. I have a minor hoarding problem. I’m working on trading in the keep-everything-in-case-I-needit mentality for a minimalist one. This battle, in itself, is fodder for a post if not a whole series.
The bugs, though? This is war. Freaking nasty little roaches. I think they’re the German kind? In my past cockroach sightings, they’d always been big, ugly bastards. These are less than half the size I was used to seeing as a kid. The ones that lived in my dad's old trailer when I was ten? They could have devoured me if I let my guard down. *shudder*
My landlord said he was going to bring some of those roach motels. That was before I even started getting ready for GenCon, so it must have been over 3 months ago. Still none have arrived.
I have bombed. I have sprayed. I have wiped every speck and crumb from all my cabinets. I have rid myself of that habit of leaving the breakfast dishes until after I come home from work. I wash up immediately, or, if I don’t have time, I put the dirty dish in the fridge. Weird, I know, but the little creeps can’t get in there and I’m not late for work, so it’s a win-win.
I’m doing another deep-clean and bomb on later today, after I take my most recent purge’s worth of reject possessions to Goodwill. (It’s sick how many things I have that I don’t need.)
It was finally to the point where I was almost never seeing the critters. I thought our time together was at a close, and maybe I could finally put my dishes where they should be. Then, the day before yesterday, I opened the empty silverware drawer and a HUGE roach practically flew out at me. I screamed like a little girl. He fell to the floor. I reduced him to a smear with my Candie’s boot. I saw, in the drawer, an unholy collection of tiny roach droppings and egg sacs.
I love old buildings with kitch and character. I also HAVE to rent old places with kitch and character, because while I have Louboutin tastes, I earn a Payless paycheck. I really thought I lucked out when
I found this apartment because it’s alarmingly big for less than $300 a month. And the flooring in the kitchen! Holy crap, it’s amazing. The kitchen chandalier is ugly as sin. It looks like a friggin’ wagon wheel. But the kitch factor is through the roof, so it stays. These dang bugs, though! I’m pretty sure they have been here all along, just lying in wait for the first opportunity, when the clinical depression hit again, and I just plain didn’t feel like washing the dishes up right away, or taking the trash out immediately. So they could slink out through cracks, from behind walls, and take over MY kitchy, cluttery paradise.
I hope it will get easier once I’ve pared my belongings down to a more monastic level. I’m actually selling off some furniture and preparing to take on a cozy little studio for my next abode. Something newer, with cleaner lines and probably less character. If Zach and I were still getting married, this place would be too small for us. But it’s too big for me. Ain’t big enough for me and all of these six-legged roommates, though. I hope Friday’s Bugpocalypse takes the rest of them out. Otherwise, we’re talking Thunderdome levels of carnage here. No bug left behind. Balls-out, cage duel, bloody, free-for-all time.
Please. Tell me if you've ever had a similar plague, and what fixed it for you. I really want to actually be able to live in the space I'm paying for. To have those cabinets for storage, instead of wondering what horrors I'd see next if I dare to open one.