The Office

Just when you thought you had seen it all when it came to Georgia bugs, something happens to prove that those pesky bugs always come up with new ways to freak you out. Personally, I really thought I had gotten my tendency to freak out whenever I see a bug larger than, oh, say my thumbnail under control. I really did. Last fall, for instance, when we had more than our share of roaches try to move into our house, I didn't flinch or squeal once. And, one memorable night, when husband-dear and I were lying on the couch, and a roach came floating down from the vent high over our heads, hovered right in front of us, and almost landed on Zoe's head, the conversation between husband-dear and I went something like this:
"Was that a roach?" (Me)
"I think so." (husband-dear)
"Huh. Is it dead?"
"No, but Zoe's got it."
"OK. Well, I'll call pest control on Monday."
"OK. Let me just make sure Zoe doesn't eat it."
"Sure. Just throw it in the trash."

People, if that's not poised, under control, and most of all, non-freaked-out, then I don't know what is. I was so proud of myself. I was finally bug-proof. And when pest-control came and told me that I'd have to leave any dead roaches I found lying around for a few days, as the little buggaboos are apparently cannibalistic and will eat their own friends and family, even if they are poison-ridden, I just said, "OK.", as though having dead roaches lying around your house is the most normal thing in the world. (I'm actually certain that in Georgia, it is).

Well.
That was a few months ago, and things change.

So I don't know if I've mentioned this, but working on a research grant comes with a lot of perks (How is this related to bugs, you ask? Don't worry, we'll get there). For one thing, it halved the number of class I have to teach, the number of office hours I have to hold, and the number of advisees I'm responsible for. Not that I don't genuinely love teaching and dealing with students, but every once in a while a break is not a bad thing. Then, of course, there is the fact that you get to work on something you really, really like, without having to squeeze it in between classes, appointments, bedtime and breakfast. And there are a whole host of other perks that no one really tells you about until you actually start. Office supplies, for instance. The foundation that pays for my grant gives you office supplies. There is no more begging for paper and toner, no more bringing staplers and holepunches from home. There is simply money to purchase those things. And manila folders. And pens. Have I ever mentioned the severe shortage of those two things on any given campus? The best perk, however, is the fact that you get a separate office. On a campus where space is so tight that some departments have to place two faculty members in one room, office space is the holiest of holies. So while my regular office is small, with a door placed in a very awkward place, the fact that it is my own and has a window makes it pretty close to heavenly. However, it is also the place where everyone and their brother knows to find me. It doesn't matter if my door is open or shut, whether I'm having office hours or meeting with the dean, eating lunch or on the phone, people will find me and demand to see me. And when you're only paid to teach and deal with students 2,5 days out of the week, this is a problem.

So it wasn't long before my program manager decided that the best way for me to remain productive while on this grant was to have a separate office for those days I work on the grant. In a different building. On the other side of campus. A few weeks ago, I first got the key, and this office is the bees' knees. It's square, with the door in a very logical place, and so large I could put a bed in it, and no one would probably even notice. It has a window that opens, new carpet, and will be stocked with brand new furniture in the near future. It's on the top floor of a building filled with researchers and non-teaching programs, and so the hallways are quiet and empty most of the time. To say I was excited was an understatement. In fact, I might have even done a very quiet little dance when I first stepped into the office.

But then my program manager, who is housed across the hallway, showed up with a spray bottle in his hand. You see, the office is housed in a very, very old building. One of those pretty buildings that Europeans always gush over when they visit American campuses. It's beautiful. But old. And old in the south means there are bugs everywhere. Especially roaches. And so my program manager keeps a bottle of industrial-strengh roach killer in his office, and loans it to every new occupant to spray their baseboards. In my case, he argued, it was especially important that I spray my office, since my neighbor had been struggling with a roach infestation for a while now. Lovely. But you know, you're in Georgia, you know all about roaches, you take the spray bottle, hose your office down, wash your hands, move on, and only keep a slightly squeamish eye on the floor while you get to work. 

That first morning went very well. I settled in, worked, worked, and worked some more. But then I had to run an errand. And when I came back, and opened my office door, I saw something fly across the carpet. My first observation, it was not brown. That was good. It was also not round. That was also good. It was, however, something a little unexpected, namely green and long. Round and brown is gross but fairly normal, so I wasn't sure how to feel about green and long. The green and long thing stopped running around, and hid under one of my chairs. Whispering "eeuw, eeuw, eeuw!" under my breath, I kneeled down, gazed at the critter, and then squealed in all earnestness when I realized that I had a gecko in my office. A fully grown, green, and incredibly spooked gecko.

My squeal brought my program manager and his neighbor out of their offices, who looked at the gecko with all the curiosity one would expect from a couple of boys. Men, I mean. Apparently geckos eat flies, do all sorts of other useful things, and score very high on the "that's so cool!" men-scale. I was not impressed. However, the gecko had since hidden under my filing cabinet, and was not to be stirred from his or her spot. So I sighed a really big sigh, sat down, and figured that I would at least not be bothered by any flying insects any time soon.

The gecko has made his appearance every once in a while since. It flutters from the filing cabinet to the desk to the baseboard on the other side of the room, and like me, it can't wait until I get more furniture for it to hide under. Every time I see it scoot around, I jump a little, but as I'm definitely not going on a gecko-killing mission any time soon, I figure I'll get used to it. In the meantime, I've named the beast too: Greta. Greta the gecko.

Now excuse me, Greta and I have some work to do.

Surviving China: Big bugs, little bugs, everything-in-between bugs

This part of my China travels was not so much a hurdle to be overcome, as all the other things I have talked about so far, as it was more of a theme that persisted throughout the entire month in Xiamen. A really large, creepy, flying-slash-crawly theme.

As most of my loyal readers know, I'm not big on bugs. Roaches give me the heebie-jeebies, fire ants, no matter where their mound is located, always seem to find -my- legs, and yellow flies are really God's way to punish mankind, and me in particular (just read this, this, and this if you want proof). So you can imagine my absolute joy when, upon stepping into my bathroom in Xiamen for the first time, I saw two long feelers slowly coming up out of the sink. Two skinny, brownish red feelers that were attached to what appeared to be the largest cockroach I have ever seen. Granted, it was two in the morning, and my powers of observation might have been a little diminished, but people, that cockroach had to be at least five inches long. Unperturbed by my presence, the bug calmly crawled out of the sink, and started to work its way up the wall towards the mirror. In the ten seconds it took the bug to get out of the sink, I not only realized it was -truly- enormous, but that a) with everything I had brought, Raid wasn't one of the things on my list, and b) that my go-to roach killer (a.k.a husband-dear) was about 6000 miles away, blissfully unaware of this creepy crawler threatening his wife. So I did what any sane person would do to get rid of a cockroach, I screamed. Apparently, cockroaches do have ears, for as soon as my piercing yell finished reverberating around the bathroom, the roach scurried down into the hole between the two faucets on the sink. Relieved, I immediately sprung into action, and while intoning "eeuw, eeuw, eeuw, eeuw", took out all of my jars and bottles, and strategically placed them over every single hole in the bathroom. After all, if I couldn't kill the damn thing, I could at least stop it from invading my space.

If only that had been the end of the bug problems, but the nighttime visit by the largest roach on campus was only a sign of things to come.

First, there was the American graduate student one floor down from me, who, when my students moved into the rooms next to hers, regaled them and myself with tales about the bedbugs she may or may not have had. Another student soon joined her, and almost casually mentioned that bed bugs were really very common in China and nothing to worry about. I think her attempt was to assuage our, now obvious, fears, but I am pretty sure she achieved the exact opposite. My students weren't sure if they had just gone from the frying pan, i.e., plywood beds, into the fire, i.e., beds with bed bugs, or if they should just chalk this up to this particular student's active imagination, but to say they were less than thrilled was an understatement. Fortunately, this student also had a solution: Chinese bug spray. I'm not sure if Chinese bug spray contains particularly vile chemicals, has magical powers, or if the creatures bugging this student weren't bed bugs at all, but it got rid of whatever was ailing this student. So my students immediately went out to the local convenience store to stock up on this bug killer, and refused to take their luggage into their rooms until they had bombed every corner of their rooms, while wearing trash bags (yeah, I'm not sure about that part either).

Now you all might be cool cucumbers, laid back and unconcerned about minor details such as bugs, but that is not me. Not if I have to live somewhere for a month, and then want to go back to a bug-free home. I know I just jested at my students for being less than thrilled, but, as husband-dear will gladly tell you, my response was slightly hysterical as well. Slightly, I promise. Really. I mean, all I did was immediately  stalk up to my room and strip my entire bed looking for signs for the little buggers, and even though I couldn't find any, I still went out to purchase said bug spray, and liberally sprayed it all over my room, mattress, sheets, and everything else I could get my hands on, oh, and then asked husband-dear to order one of these for when I got home. And then checked myself for bug bites every morning for a month. That's not over the top at all, is it?
Right.

Anyway, once again, I would love to tell you that was it as far as bug tales were concerned, but it's not. Our second issue centered on China's stealth mosquitoes. Call me spoiled, but I'm used to mosquitoes that make noise. You know, that annoying buzz that will keep you up half the night, convinced the little bugger is about to fly into your ear. Chinese mosquitoes have apparently evolved into a more superior nuisance, as they're small, and quiet. If you look very closely, you can see them hovering near the ceiling right before bedtime, but most of the time, you have no idea that there are mosquitoes in your room until you see them using your arm or leg as a meal. Or when you check into a hotel, and see the tiny blood spots and mosquito remnants on the walls. Now add to this the fact that most of us didn't have weatherstripping on our doors (as I mentioned last week), that my window had a nice gaping crack on the side that didn't have a screen, and you can imagine that our lives were just filled with mosquito-induced joy. Now you may wonder why we didn't bring any bug repellent and use it if these suckers were so bad. Well, we did. Some of us brought the heavy-duty Off! Deep Woods with 25% deet, while others went for the more gentle approach with Avon's Skin So Soft, while one student had even brought a mosquito repellent coil (no, I am not kidding). None of them, and I do mean none of them, worked. None. We were very lucky that Xiamen is not known for having malaria-spreading mosquitoes, or we would all be up a creek without a paddle. Instead, the only that did work, as we found out after about ten days, was an obscure Chinese remedy that came in a green glass bottle. Lime green, it smelled surprisingly good, moisturized your skin, and kept bugs at bay, so in all, it was quite the little miracle drug.

Overall, however, our biggest bug-related problem could not be solved by any sort of repellent. The largest problem we faced every day and night was the Chinese cicada. I'm actually not sure if these particular creates are cicadas, or locusts (which is what the locals called them), but I do know that they were a true pest. Chinese cicadas are, first of all, incredibly large. Put your two thumbs together, and you're close.
Second, they fly. And that's OK, because cicadas here in Georgia fly too. What's less OK is that there are thousands and thousands of cicadas who all love the warmth and light of a building filled with humans at night, and who thus try their very best to get into every building on campus. They will fly at windows, doors, and into humans if that's what it takes. So imagine walking back to your building after eating dinner, or going into town, and having over-sized bugs fly into your arms, your head, your body incessantly. Or walking up your stairwell only to be attacked by a cicada that is trying to fly into your corridor but can't seem to find the door. Or, the best part, stepping over what you think its a dead cicada, only to have it come to life, and attempt to fly up your skirt. It's just plain creepy.
And third, while we were in China, it was cicada-mating season. Great. Good for them. Find a mate and love on them is what I say. The problem is that during mating season, locusts or cicadas or whatever they are do two things. Number one: they die right after doing the deed. Yep. They find their soul mate, make sweet locust-love to them, excrete eggs, bury them, and die. It's like Titanic for bugs. So this means that those black, hard-shelled insects that were madly flying around your hallway and trying to get into your room via the missing weather stripping (told you it was relevant), will be dead little carcasses in the morning. One morning I counted as many as 52 dead locusts on our floor and in our stairwell. Just what one wants to see before having breakfast, I assure you. Number two: they "excrete mating fluids" (don't ask) to attract their mate. Again, awesome. Do whatever it takes. But they do this during the day, while trilling and clicking away in the hundreds of trees around campus. So as an unknown foreigner, it's very possible to spend the first few days, or maybe even the first week (or in the case of one professor, all four weeks until the very last day) wondering what those drops of water are that keep raining down on you from the canopy of leaves overhead, and to possibly delight in their coolness. Until a local fills you in, and you realize why everyone carries around umbrellas even when it's not raining, and in you're in the shade.
And the best part? Chinese people eat the little buggers. So whenever several would make their way into the lobby of our building (where we liked to converge at night after dinner), the owner of the little convenience store there would ask us to catch them so she could stir fry them, while the night guard spend many evenings scaring the women in my group by catching a cicada, pulling its wings off, before handing it over to "a yi" as the woman running the store was affectionately known.

I'm sure I was supposed to learn something from this experience, maybe something about how bugs in Georgia really aren't that bad, or perhaps how you do get used to even the worst living conditions (because you do), but all I really care about is how I'm no longer surrounded by wound-up horny cicadas whose sole purpose in life is to scare the living daylights out of me.

Now it might seem to hard to believe after all these tales, but we did actually have a good time in China too. I will talk about that next. Promise.

Roaches and the end of time

"You really need to write about roaches today" is what a little voice inside my head told me this morning. Since after what happened this morning, I wouldn't be surprised if the Last Days of the earth commenced tomorrow, I figured it might be a good idea to pay heed to that little voice.

You may remember that the last time I had a memorable encounter with a cockroach, I didn't scream or yell, but called the doggies to come take it outside. Although this was a vast improvement on my first encounter here in Georgia, where I, after seeing a gigantic cockroach in our truck, rode home with my feet on the dashboard, it definitely wasn't the laid back, carefree, whatever-it's-just-a-bug-did-you-pick-up-the-mail-today approach my husband, and all southerners with him, takes.
I mean, I was still living in a very much non-southern world, where cockroaches, although possibly inevitable, do not belong inside the house, and are to be eradicated upon sight.

Well, apparently, that too has changed. Next to my growing southern social skills, I can now apparently also claim a southern approach to bugs.

This morning, you see, I saw a cockroach and shrugged. Actually, I did more than that. I told it to get out of my way so I wouldn't accidentally step on it.
I TALKED to a cockroach y'all...that has got to be the sign of the end of time. Or the sign of something at any rate.

Here's what happened. As I'm sure you're delighted to hear, our night time temperatures have been dipping into the mid-60s, while our daytime temperatures have moved comfortably into the low 90s. For all you who feel like you've seen nothing but rain for the past three months: I'm sorry. Anyway, I digress. So although these temperatures mean that humans are very happy, the roaches living in our neighborhood aren't, as heir nights have suddenly gotten incredibly cold. And apparently cockroaches don't like cold. I'm not sure what they do once winter (i.e., temperatures in the low 50s to mid 40s ) really kicks in, whether they migrate, hibernate, or just die, but I do know that in the fall, when nights get colder, cockroaches would like nothing better than to move into your home, with you, thankyouverymuch.

So this morning, as I turned on the light in the garage to start loading up my car, one giant cockroach scurried out from under my bike, toward the door into the house. Even though the cockroach was probably the size of a small hamster, I said absolutely nothing, but merely looked at it, and shrugged. Then when I came out of the house again, the cockroach ran out from behind a set of shelves, right in front of me. After stepping out of its erratic path, I didn't just open my mouth, but I actually put on the voice I reserve for puppies and little kids, and said, "You be careful now Mr. Roach, or I will step on you!"
Yes I did.

And, yes, it gets worse.

When I came out of the house for the last time (I have a lot of stuff I drag back and forth with me, seriously), I saw two cockroaches run across the length of the garage, and disappear underneath the riding lawn mower.
And did I scream? Pull out the Raid? Bring the dogs out to eat them?
No.
I put on my puppy-and-babies-voice and said, "Oh, you've got a friend!"

A friend? Really?!

I have really no explanation for my thinking that things as absolutely revolting as cockroaches have friends, other than the end of time is near. There will be beasts, and angels, and endless floods and earthquakes (oh wait..), and people talking to cockroaches. I'm just saying. And don't say I didn't warn you!

The fire ant solution

I'd like to think that as far as bugs are concerned, I have matured a lot over the past four years. I hardly ever yell, squeal, or demand that a male figure come in and squash whatever multiple-legged creature has made it into my personal space bubble.

Case in point #1: The other day a tiny little spider crawled out from between the cushions of our couch, whilst I was sitting on said couch. My response? "Oh, hey, a spider". After some consideration, I decided I should probably kill it, however, the spider chose that exact moment to disappear back between the sofa cushions, and has not been seen since. And do I care? No. Not really.

Case in point #2: Cockroaches do nothing for me anymore. The other day, when I was scrubbing the back porch, I must have seen about ten of the brown little beasts half-dragging themselves into a dark corner (apparently, our pest protection doesn't kill them immediately, but allows them to flail and gasp for a little while first). Instead of screaming and jumping on something, I took my broom, possibly said something like, "Hiiii--yah!" and crushed the half-dying bugs. Yes, I'm heartless. And possibly a drama queen.

Anyway, the one bug, however, that I simply cannot get used to, is the fire ant. Fireants are those gigantic red ants that attack any human being who comes within three feet of their mound and leave painful, itchy welts that can, and in my case always do, swell up to the size of a kernel of corn, and, if you're lucky, leave you with a nice little scar as a reminder of the encounter.

If it were up to me, these little beasts would be completely eradicated from the planet. Entirely. I know that every animal, no matter how small, serves a purpose, which, no matter how minute it is, keeps the circle of life, the chain of all existence in place, but you know what? If all fire ants are wiped out tomorrow, and we as human beings cease to exist, so be it.

As you can probably tell, this summer has been a tough one as far as fire ants are concerned. In spite of all our anti-pest activity from last summer, we seem to have attracted every single fire ant in the county to our backyard this year. You see, this year we don't just have the big mound under our bed room window, oh no. We have a mound at the corner of our porch, one right in front of the porch, one in the middle of the yard (but conveniently located along the little trail that runs to the pool), and one right next to the pool filter system. Now guess who's in charge of running the filter? And guess who did not see the gigantic fire ant mound?

Indeed. Me.

And I have eight fire ant bites on one foot and six on the other to prove it.

Now fire ants are nothing like their red cousins over in Europe. Georgia fire ants are European red ants on crack. With a hangover. Yes, the red ants we get in Europe will bit you, and yes, that bite will sting. But people, I was bitten almost two weeks ago, and not only can you still see the welts, they still itch and burn from time to time.

What's even worse is that any of the conventional remedies don't work for me anymore. Benadryl, creams, ointments, nothing. Washing with soap, water, even bleach, nothing will help. So when the fire ants attacked me this last time, I turned to the internet for help, and came up with worcestershire sauce. That's right, the condiment a lot of people like to use on their meat.

But hey, I like experiments as much as the next person, so I filled a bucket with worcestershire sauce, and dunked one of my feet in it. Why not both feet, you ask? Well, the scientist in me wanted to make sure that if it worked, it was because of the sauce and not some sort of placebo effect, so I decided to only use the sauce on one foot, and let the other foot serve as a control group.

Well, you'll be happy to know that the sauce worked (and the dogs licked my feet for the rest of the day), but only for about ten hours. That night, the itching and the burning returned in full force. At night, the itching got so bad, I managed to scratch one of the bites into a (I'm sorry for the visual) bloody pulp in my sleep.

The next day, I realized that a trip to CVS would be inevitable. The bites were driving me insane, and it was all I could do to not scratch them. As I was windexing our back door, the itching got so bad, I, in an act of desperation, squirted some windex on it. And there it was. Immediate relief. I squirted some on the other foot. The burning stopped. It was nothing short of a miracle, honestly. For the next few days, all I had to do was squirt some windex on my feet every morning, and I was good to go. It. Was. Awesome.

So there you have it, the solution to fire ant bites: Windex. No need to smell like a steak restaurant, just windex your feet.

And those fire ant mounds? They're gone. This week I went out and bought the meanest ant killer I could find. Every single mound has been spot treated, and they had better not come back. Because I am ready and waiting.

Tri-bugs

Getting ready for a race just isn't what it used to be. When husband-dear and I just ran road races, all we did the night before was eat our tri-pasta (although back then it still went by the name of "pasta salad"), and go to bed on time. Once I (and later, we) started doing triathlons all that changed. Now we have journals, check lists, pre-race, post-race, and TA (transition area) bags, as well as a car full of supplies "just in case". I'm serious.

I mean, think about. A triathlon includes swimming, biking, and running, which means you not only need equipment for all three events, you also need enough fluids and nutrition to keep you going for the entire race. Last weekend, when both husband-dear and I raced, I counted the number of water bottles I ended up loading into the dishwasher afterwards: twelve. Yes, people, we went through six waterbottles each. Granted, that included pre-race hydration, post-race recovery drinks, the prerequisite water bottle to get the sand off your feet from the beach, as well as our race bottles, but still. Twelve bottles. Oh, and a camelbak. We were hydrated up the wazoo.

And although I won't bore you with my entire equipment checklist, let's just say that includes such items as: goggles (can't see without them), lube (to stop the wetsuit from chafing your skin, nothing kinky, get your mind out of the gutter), a spare everything, helmet, biking shoes, running shoes, a towel ( the only way to claim your little 1x1' area in the transition area), and a spray-on sunscreen. And as of this past Saturday, I'm going to have to add bugspray to that list.

Yes, bugspray.

Just when you thought you had seen it all as far as bugs went (cockroaches the size of your palm, termites dying to chew up your home, and ciccadas loud enough to wake the dead), there was yet another gigantic eeuw! to add to my list.

You see, this particular race required its participants to "pre-rack" their bicycles, i.e., put their bikes inside the transition area (on a, you guessed it, rack) the night before the race. And so husband-dear and I trekked out the event area, and dutifully numbered and racked our bikes the afternoon before the race. On a side note, as most tri-bikes cost the equivalent of a small car, I always find this an interesting practice. Even more so since no one ever complains. It helps, I suppose, that the event has a night guard on duty, and that no one, well except you all now, knows that the aggregate value of the six hundred or so bikes out there could really help the US get rid of some of its deficit.

And in case you wondered, no, husband-dear and I don't ride tri-bikes. I'm Dutch, after all.

Anyway, when we showed up the next morning, not only was I delighted to find my bicycle to still be there, I was also thrilled to find my bike covered in lines of tiny little ants. Yes, ants. A closer inspection revealed them to be the harmless black variety, which led to a minor celebration on my part, as I can't imagine riding a race on a bike covered in fire ants (actually I can. It would probably be my fastest race to date). After that small victory, however, I was left to wonder a) how these ants got here (we were next to a beach, after all, not the most logical site for ant hills), b) why they had crawled all over MY bike, ignoring the two $5k bikes next to mine, and c) if they would just stay on the bike while I rode it, crawling all over me as well. I could just imagine what the feel of tiny little ants crawling into my tri top and stampeding across my back would do to my time (or race pictures for that matter).

The ants appeared unperturbed as I inflated my tires, checked my brakes, and taped three gels to the seat post. They also didn't appear to care much about the two waterbottles that appeared out of nowhere either.

When husband-dear appeared to borrow the pump, he noticed the ants too, "Well," he said practically, "Looks like you'll have to add bug spray to your check list from now on."
"Apparently." I was not amused,
"Or get a termite protection plan for your bike."

Indeed.

The best part of the whole ant-experience (and yes, they did disappear once I started riding), was when we walked down to the beach for the start of the race and I caught the following conversation between a toddler and her mother:
"Mommy! There's ants in the sand! There's ants all over the sand!"
"It's OK, they're not going to hurt you."
"But I don't like ants! And there shouldn't be any ants on the beach!"
"Oh honey, this is Georgia, there are ants everywhere."

Very true.

A southern approach to a roach

Even though I may have my doubts about it, I'm well aware of the fact that I'm showing the thousand-and-one little signs of becoming more southern, thank you. I realized very well that last week I told a new friend of mine (yes, from the "north") that her kids didn't have to call me "Mrs. Last name", but that they could call me "Ms. First name", because "that's how kids do it down here". And it only seems like yesterday that husband-dear and I did the "hmmm..interesting" head-nod when a neighbor told us that exact same thing. And just last night, the love of my life and I both looked up when we heard someone on television talk about "ice tea". Apparently, we've become so assimilated that we were both convinced that the entire country talks about "sweet tea", and only Europeans use the words "ice tea", that this came as a real surprise. You mean that not everyone talks about sweet and unsweet tea? Really?
But the absolute, total, complete, and utter proof that I am becoming more southern occurred a few mornings ago. And it involved a cockroach. One of those really big, long-legged, hard-shelled, brown cockroaches.

As you all know, cockroaches are far from my favorite insect. In fact, I used to think that if there is one animal that in my opinion could be wiped from the surface of the earth forever, it would have to be the cockroach. And I didn't put up with people telling me that would upset the food chain or the bio-ecological balance of the planet. People who said that had obviously never encountered a Georgia cockroach in their bathroom while wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Knowing all of that, you would think that a few days ago, when I encountered a cockroach in our office / guest room in the wee hours of the morning, I would have ran, screamed, reached for the nearest can of raid, and then jumped around yelling and hollering until of the boys in the house would have disposed of the body. But I didn't. And to this day, I'm not sure how to explain that, or what I did afterwards.

I should probably explain that the cockroach was on its back, with its legs up in the air, wriggling. It looked so helpless and sad. I could just hear it saying, "Please, please, please, help me up. Please! Help! Me! Up! Please! I have two hundred kids to feed, you don't understand..please!". I'm a sucker for helpless people and creatures, and so I couldn't bring myself to squash it. Although that may have also had something to do with the fact that I was in bare feet. Anyway, I let it live, and then pondered my options. Killing the thing with Raid was not an option as it was positioned right in between all of the electrical cords for our laptops, printer, router, and whatever else husband-dear has hooked up out there. Plus, I was worried that if I would let it out of my sight, it would miraculously hop up right, and crawl under a piece of furniture, only to give me a heart attack a few days later when it would venture out. And since it was still laying there, looking lost and scared, I still felt bad about killing it anyway. So what to do?

And then I remembered. Zoe and Shelby. Our dogs love playing with bugs. And I mean they love it. They will chase a bug around the back porch until they're worn out, and if the bug tries to scurry into the grass, they will simply dig a hole until they find it, or we catch them. Our entire backyard is testimony to their love for bugs. So while keeping my eye on roachy, I clapped my hands and called their names. The dogs immediately came scampering up the stairs, and eyeballed the little brown bug under the desk. Shelby didn't quite get it, but Zoe was intruiged by the roach, and after sniffing it cautiously, took the bug in her mouth, and without any prodding on my end, ran down the stairs and out the back door. Her sister followed hot in pursuit, and together they chased the cockroach around the backporch until it finally got away.

And me? I was relieved the stupid cockroach survived. Yes, you heard that correctly. Call me a sissy city girl with some southern country spunk or somethihg, but that's what it is. Sheesh.