A nasty barrier between me and domestic bliss

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.

VU Fashion program needs to step it up

Over a week-long period, when I was at my most stressed-out this semester, I considered changing from the costume construction major to fashion merchandising at Vincennes University. I knew it would be less time-consuming.

Boy, am I glad I didn't.

In a final presentation in my history of costume class, I watched a fashion major exhibit an adequate level of knowledge. Um, that is, adequate if you want to work a minimum-wage retail gig in southern Indiana for the rest of your life.

She didn't know what a crinoline is. She couldn't pronounce the word. She did not know how to pronounce the names of Karl Lagerfeld or Vivienne Westwood. This presentation was over fashions FROM 1980 TO 2008. We were alive during this time! There is no excuse! I can understand, maybe, being a first year and mixing up your 15th-century farthingales. Because we don't really often use farthingales anymore. But come ON. Failing to know even the most basic basics of recent fashions? Being unable to pronounce the word "proliferate?"

Anywhere outside of Vincennes, you're gonna get laughed out of the room. I politely maintained my poker face in the classroom while resolving to work like hell on studying independently as much as possible, beefing up my portfolio, and researching quality apprenticeships and internships. I wish a better fashion school were within my budget; this is not the current reality. Thus, my resolve is strengthened to work even harder and make up for what my price-range lacks in useful education.

I don't want to sound ungrateful. There are some things I've learned this semester. But most of them have been from Professor Sevak in the costume department. I'm not saying any of this to be mean. I'm providing an honest assessment of what I've seen so far of my peers, which is honestly much more tactful than what they'd receive from "real" industry-types. I'm saying the truth: A fashion revolution is happening, right here in our state, just a few hours to the north. As it stands, we students can't rely on this institution to prepare us, because we will be far from ready. The Vincennes University fashion department needs to step up their game, in a big way, if they and their students want a slice of the action. We deserve better, and we ought to demand such.