The city is warming up, and the cockroaches are coming in looking for the shade.
I killed one such creature last night by throwing a copy of The Andy Warhol Diaries on top of it -- the heaviest book I could lay my hands on at the time -- and then left the book, and dead roach I presumed under it, until The Prince came home 4 hours later to clean it up. Let me tell you Mamas, that is a service I value.
Now lest you think the bugs are here because of a lack of cleanliness on my part– well, while the floor is swept and washed every day, (well, I think about it everyday) the creatures still come.
I know I shouldn’t be so uptight about this – they’re only bugs, big ugly flying revolting scary heinous nauseating bugs, -- still, I just don’t like them. Call me crazy.
The rabbit mercifully hasn’t inherited my freak-out over these creatures. She still thinks it’s cool when fireflies land on her hand. (yet another flying insect I would prefer respect my personal space…)
And I am trying not to react as strongly as I want to (like running into the living-room and standing on top of the couch screaming ROACHROACHROACH!!!!…for example….) when she’s around. After all, I am not a summer person either. I understand wanting to avoid the sun. Fair-skinned as I am, I burn in about 10 minutes and can get a lovely heat rash blooming on my skin at any temperature above 95 degrees.
Still, I think we could achieve some kind of an agreement. They stay in the walls, where it’s even cooler – right? And I agree not to spray them with shaving cream and then toss 10-pound books on their bodies.
Sounds like detente to me.