Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Creepy Crawly

I hate creepy crawly things. Snakes. Spiders. Alligators. The entire bug species. Except caterpillars, those are pretty cool….only because they turn into butterflies. But there is one particular bug that has earned my particular hatred.


I hate them. I hate them more than anything. I pray all the time that God would simultaneously kill every single roach on this planet in the most awful way He can think of. I think He doesn’t because He likes to laugh at the funny dance I do every time I see one.
I’ve always hated roaches, but after my incident at our first home my hatred increased. We were living in a trailer (read: really hard to keep roaches out of them), and we were having some issues with roaches in our cabinets. One day while Roman was at work, I decided it would be a good idea to clean out the cabinets in the kitchen island and give it a good spray with some roach killer. I drug everything out and washed everything and got ready to spray. I was really excited because so far I had not seen one single roach.

That’s because they were lying in wait for me.

I stuck the spray can inside the cabinet, pointed it at the upper corners and pressed the trigger.

When I say that the next ten minutes were the worst ten minutes of my entire life, I am not joking. They were worse than any illness I’ve ever had. They were worse than any migraine. They were worse than any tragedy I’ve had to endure. The. Worst. At least fifty roaches came pouring out of every opening in my cabinet. They were flying at my face. They were crawling on me. I am 100% certain my neighbors probably thought I was getting violently murdered, because I was screaming louder than I’ve ever screamed before. Seriously guys, I’ve had nightmares since then. It was AWFUL. Roman was at work, so I called my parent’s house. My dad answered the phone to his daughter sobbing on the phone about how much she hated trailers and roaches and living next to the woods and summer time and how she was going to live in her car where it was safe. When he finally understood what I was talking about, he drove to my house with some heavy duty bug killer and caulk. He spent the next two hours sealing up the cabinets and killing every roach he could find. I have the best dad ever.

I tell you that lovely little tale so you can have a very deep appreciation for my roach hatred. And to ask if there are support groups for traumatizing roach event victims. The bad thing is Roman hates roaches just as much as I do. So every time we find one in our house, the conversation goes something like this:

Roman: I killed the last one. Your turn.
Sarah: I can’t do it.
Roman: It’s your turn.
Sarah: No really, I can’t do it. Please kill it.
Roman: You.
Sarah: You.
Roman: Please???!??
Sarah: No you. PLEASE.

(I normally win, because I have the best husband ever.)

Two nights ago, Roman and I were lying in bed right next to each other talking about our day as we got ready to go to sleep.

Sarah: What was that?
Roman: What?
Sarah: It felt like a bug.
Roman: Now I feel it too. It does feel like a bug.
*move covers around, feel around bed sheets*
Sarah: Maybe it was just the pillow case or something.

So last night Roman was in the shower and I was catching up on some reading while I was lying in bed. All of a sudden, it felt like there a bug crawling along my arm. Naturally, I freaked out because the edge of the pillow case was obviously not down by my hand.


I immediately ran to the closet and grabbed a shoe and when I came back, it was gone. I spent the next five minutes carefully pulling back the covers while standing in a defensive stance with a sandal in my left hand, praying desperately that God would help me find the worst thing He had ever created. I finally spotted it, and beat the crap out of it. Seriously, I hit it about ten or fifteen times. Because, you know, you can never be too sure about roaches. You have to make sure you kill them real good.

I seriously debated sleeping on the couch last night. I mean, I had a ROACH in my BED. But I finally convinced myself that he was alone and that if I slept on the couch I wouldn’t get much sleep and that I was probably safe. Of course, for the next half hour I tossed and turned because every time a stray hair touched my back I freaked out and flapped my arms around like a chicken.

If any of you actually like roaches, you are no longer my friend. Unless you can deal with the fact that I am on a personal vendetta to kill every single one of them. And don’t tell me that they serve a purpose, because I don’t even care what that purpose may be.

So if you ever come over and find me standing on top of the bed with a sandal in my hand flapping my arms around like a chicken, you’ll know what’s going on.

Seriously, there’s got to be a support group somewhere for this.

“Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: ‘It is Mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.” ~Romans 12:19

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