A, Like, 2 1/2 Inch Winged Cockroach

Bugs didn't used to creep me out that much. And even now most bugs are alright with me in moderation. Naturally, like anybody else, I hate flies around my food, or wasps and bees dive bombing the jacuzzi while the kids are playing in there, or snails eating up pretty, flowering plants, or any kind of bug that has pretensions of forming ranks with its brethren and taking over my personal living space. What I mean about them being alright with me is that I don' t mind sighting the occasional roly poly or the meandering stink bug. Earwigs and silverfish annoy but don't terrorize. Spiders don't make me shriek. In fact one time I was singing in a classic rock and blues band on an outdoor stage over which hung a lovely shade tree, which apparently played host to a spider egg sack that was fit to burst, when suddenly, probably in the middle of one of my superior Janis Joplin renditions, hundreds of tiny little spiders came floating down onto and around me and the rest of the Mike James group. I'm proud to say that I just kept on singing. Now potato bugs are a different story altogether, and you can't judge me for being squeamish about them, because they're rubbery and squishy and kind of translucent, and are probably part alien, and one of them ran across my flip flop clad foot one evening when I was watering the lawn of the house I rented on Pixie Lane 13 or 14 years ago. I nearly hurled.

But you're probably wondering about the cockroach in the blog title. Several nights ago one of the girls ran in and screeched, "There's a big bug on the wall! There's a big bug on the wall!" I was skeptical about the "big" part, since my girls tend to react strongly to bugs in the house, so I took my time getting into the computer room to tend to the bug. Once I did, however, tears sprang to my eyes and my hand sprang to my mouth, either to hold in a shriek or a wail or maybe some vomit. It was a monster. Even now, with the initial shock over and time for my rational mind to process the incident, I'm fairly certain this beast was at least 2 1/2 inches long. It was winged. It must have weighted like a pound, because it didn't scuttle or skitter, it lumbered. Slowly enough for me to practically empty a spray bottle of some natural bug killer stuff onto it as it made its slow escape. And it did escape, I'm afraid, somewhere under my desk, although I'm certain it couldn't have escaped death with all that spray on it. I have that to console me.

I didn't always have such a strong reaction to cockroaches. Not that I ever felt fond of them or anything, but I tried to keep my wits about me around them, even when I lived in a Caribbean city in Colombia where there are plenty of these big, flying cockroaches. What really turned me against cockroaches was an apartment we lived in in West Covina. The day we moved in there was the beginning of a war for me. There were roaches (the smaller, reddish ones) visible 'most any time of day or night - you didn't even have to know their hiding places. The cheeky things were peeking out from under the counter by my foot, rushing out from somewhere around the sink while I was preparing a meal, clinging to the inside of the door of the cupboard as I opened it, dashing across the floor to snatch a fallen piece of lettuce. These were some bold and brassy little tormentors.

Some things I may never forget about living in that apartment: I never prepared food without disinfecting the counter and sink first; I began keeping clean silverware in ziplocks and using paper plates; I never left food unattended; while sitting at the kitchen table I didn't keep my feet on the floor, but instead propped them up on the base of the table as I ate; I should have taken out stock in those roach bait trap thingy companies. While the kitchens were the worst places in those apartments as far as critter activity, I always felt I might step on one anywhere I walked. The ultimate horror was the night I was woken up by the sensation of a cockroach at the corner of my mouth. Only it was more than a sensation; it really was a roach. I wanted to scream and throw up and cry and who knows what else. I actually met a woman at a Bible study once who, when I told her where we were living, shuddered, and told me that she'd lived in those apartments as a little girl, and that she still had nightmares about it. Those apartments obviously should have been razed decades before we ever lived there.

I never did win that war against the roaches in that apartment, although I won thousands of personal battles over our three years there. I got so angry about the incessant roaches that I went into killer mode. When I saw one, I would go after it with a napkin and smash it, throw it away, and get ready to do it again when the next one showed its face. I felt triumphant with each slaying, feeling I'd reduced the roach population significantly (I'm sure now that the friends and relatives of the dead were laughing at me from behind cupboard doors as they procreated untold millions). I used to buy a package of 500 napkins once a week, and between our normal family use and the roach slaying, the 500 napkins were all used up by shopping day.

It was a great day when we moved out of that place. We had to get rid of any upholstered furniture we'd had there to make sure we didn't take any critters with us. We even unpacked our boxes in the garage of our new place to make sure we weren't bringing them in with the boxes. Three years of terror over.

I didn't realize that I'd lost the Roach Warrior aspect of my personality until the other day when this big fat monster was on my office wall and I was reduced to a whimpering bundle of horrific apartment memories, unable to grab a napkin and smash that big bug. I guess the reign of terror lives on in my mind. I probably need some deprogramming. And to keep our house doors closed at night; our security screens are not secure enough to keep out cockroaches.

If you're ever planning to move to an apartment in West Covina, please contact me first. I'll let you know which apartment complex to steer clear of.