My Less Graceful Reactions to Household Pests
Perusing the internet the other day, I read about the news that biologists had discovered a new species of pest, er, cockroach in South America called Lucihormetica luckae, pictured above. It has bioluminescent properties, which scientists believe to be a defense mechanism against predators. It’s worth noting that this is probably more effective than my defense mechanisms, which usually consist of panic and poorly crafted insults.
I hate cockroaches. They’re gross and dirty and rude and basically will never ever go away because they can survive everything. And after we’ve all died in some nuclear holocaust, they’ll still just be chilling, eating all of the radioactive Twinkies. What assholes.
My hatred was solidified when I lived in a rowhouse with two friends during college that had a pretty nasty cockroach infestation. We lived in a densely populated area and behind a probably-not-up-to-health-code takeout restaurant. So, no matter how many times the Orkin man visited us, those nasty-ass bugs kept showing up.
I was already skittish about having any physical contact with insects, so my methods of dealing with coming across another one of a seemingly endless population of cockroach became less and less rational. This has continued well into adulthood and I’m a big enough person to share with you some of my less orthodox approaches to household pests.
Trapping the Offending Bug Under a Container So I Can Deal With It Later
You call it a Tupperware party, I call it adding to my arsenal.
Sometimes I just physically can’t deal with a bug at the time that I discover it. Maybe I need to have a few drinks before I go about killing and/or disposing it. Maybe I’m just happy to embrace the worst stereotypes of my gender and will let my husband deal with the nastiness because I’m too delicate. In those cases, some kind of container will take the place of my rational thought process and will be placed over the bug until such time that it can be removed somehow.
Jumping Up on Furniture and Screaming
Liar.
My college living situation was also the first time I had to deal with rats. One morning, stumbling toward the coffeemaker, a small rat scurried across the kitchen and OVER MY FOOT OH MY FUCKING GOD IT TOUCHED ME I’M GOING TO CUT MY FOOT OFF NOW. I actually jumped up on a chair screaming, which is something I thought only cartoon characters did. I followed it up with running from room to room, trying to get to the highest point possible. It was not my finest moment. Later in life, I invested in cats who have dealt with rat encounters for me, though they still feel the need to display their work at the foot of my bed on the rare occasions that they catch something.
Busting Out My AK, Where AK = My Handheld Vacuum Cleaner
I’m strapped.
Once a year, in late summer, we always have a housefly infestation. It’s really weird. We don’t know what causes it. All we know is that, like clockwork, we’ll find ourselves in the midst of The Amityville Horror. Swatting at these flies is ineffective, so several years ago I started wielding my trusty Dyson. I go from room to room, sucking up flies and then dumping them outside where those who have survived the ordeal are free to live the rest of their shitty, brief lives bothering someone else. I also used this method during an ant infestation last year, with similarly successful results.
About the Author
kdiddy kdiddy is a lifelong Pittsburgher and always has trouble readings people’s facial expressions when she tells them that. She’s been a writer since somewhere around second grade, when she penned a novella about a monster who attacked her suburb, devoured all of the kids in her Catholic school, and put a hurt on the supply of hot dogs in the cafeteria. Since that auspicious beginning, she’s earned a few fancy-pants writing degrees and vomited her words in print and online (kdiddy.org, MamaPop.com). Her hobbies include wife-ing, mothering, showing hoes no love, carbs, and candy.
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