>Sometimes I suspect that I am under electronic surveillance, but when I say that I am bugged, usually I mean that something is annoying the shit out of me. This is not infrequent, especially when I read or hear the news. However, this morning as I was reading the op-ed section of the New York Times at my dining room table, I was bugged in a far less typical manner.
A tickling sensation spread over the outer part of my left foot. "What the fuck?" I thought as I looked down and shook my leg a little. For a second, it seemed as though the pink satin ribbon near the edge of my pajama pants was brushing against me and causing the feeling. Then the roach ran out from under the cuff.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I screamed.
Husband remained in his chair, frozen, while I ran into the kitchen for the roach spray. "Want a newspaper?" he yelled?
"I'm looking for the spray!" I barked back. Fuck it. I grabbed a big paper towel and dashed back into the dining room. Husband was standing over our invader holding a section of the paper. (Usually he runs away screaming, so I was very proud of him for aiding me by monitoring its movements.) I pounced and nailed the fucker (the roach, not husband), but I didn't kill it. I sprang at it again. It ran towards Husband. He lifted his slipper and stomped it. This was most impressive for him.
I scooped up the smooshed, gooey, juicy roach with the paper towel and took it to its watery grave. After flushing it down the toilet, I mopped its guts off the dining room floor. Then I shuddered, thinking about how a roach was on my bare foot. Nasty!
Weirdly, yesterday I had composed an essay about women and the fear of bugs to post on BlogHer today. (Cue the spooky music.) Next time, I think I will write about how much women love it when money randomly comes out of their shower heads instead of water.