Not Quite a Refugee
I’ve gone a little missing. Not because I don’t love my blog, or because I have nothing going on – but because I am temporarily displaced. You see, I’ve written about the bugs in my (soon to be former) apartment. They were gross, they were disgusting, they were embarassing, but really – the worst of it was really a skeevy inconvenience. Until Sunday.
I was feeling pretty good. I haven’t seen a bug (dead or alive) in about 3 weeks and I was feeling pretty confident about it. Spent the morning at the beach and the afternoon thinking up nerdy trivia questions for an upcoming fundraiser for Figment Theatre. Sunday evening was spent writing about what to cook for the week (obviously never happened), scrubbing the bathroom and kitchen. It was going to be a good week. Frank is coming home this Friday, and I was going to relish some alone time, finish up my Netflix (Wonderfalls – really cute little canceled show) and maybe even start packing for the impending move.
At about 11:30 at night, I slip into bed. The A/C is blasting, the house is clean – all is well with the world. As I drift off, I feel something on my leg. Eh, it’s probably just the sheet. I rub one leg against the other, and drift back. Five seconds later, I feel something on my butt/hip. No… It couldn’t be. That’s crazy. But … what if it is? I leapt out of bed, grabbed my glasses and switched on the lights.
Oh. My. God.
A giant (okay, average for my apartment – which is still TREMENDOUS) roach is crawling around in my sheets/comforter.
I think I must have screamed an obscenity, grabbed a can of roach spray and sprayed the hell out of it until it was dead. Yes, I know – you shouldn’t really spray chemicals in your bed, but I really wasn’t thinking too clearly. And if I had to do it again? I would. I wanted immediate, swift death.
And now, in a controversial move (both Frank and my boss think I am over-reacting here), I called my mom up, hysterically crying. I packed a bag, and since Sunday, I have been staying with my mom or friends.
It’s just … it’s my bed. My inner sanctum. How can I fall asleep again without freaking out over every breeze? Frank will be home tomorrow night, and I am going to feel much braver with him there, but I am still pretty upset. We move in two(ish) weeks, and it really cannot come soon enough.
Do you think I’m nuts for abandoning my home? I omitted pictures (oh my god, yes -I took a picture of the dead creature, in case my landlord wanted proof of how vile this whole situation is) – but if you really want them, I can provide. Also, if you really want them, you are gross!