No picture for this one
Today, a cockroach tried to be cute. He almost succeeded, too.
I was just done eating breakfast in a perfectly civilized room, full of civilized things (woven rug, musty Harvard classics, pictures of dead relatives). And there he was, Monsieur le biological throwback. I could tell he felt embarrassed about it. He didn’t really want to be there, during my breakfast hour. It’s just that winter’s coming on, and what else is he to do? He scuttled over to the corner (scuttle really is being kind—there should be a special word for this kind of movement) and sort of pressed himself up against it. There were no gaps in the floorboard, though, and he kept hugging it, trying to make himself smaller. This was the part that, if he had not been more than two inches long, leggy, and crunchy-oozy, would have been cute.
But maybe it worked for him: I told bugmonster to go ahead and do his thing and swiftly departed without taking a whack at him (and it literally is a kind of whack that we—and by “we” I mean “not me”—take. N. has an electric tennis racket of death, meant to kill flies. With roaches, you get sparks rather than instant death, since these beasties are perfectly engineered to survive the nuclear holocaust. But it does stun them in a spectacular way and stacks the odds in your favor*).
This is not something I thought I would be doing in my life: choosing between saying fiddle dee dee or becoming intimate with crunch-ooze while I’m still in my polka-dot pajamas. And this is not just any crunch-ooze. Remember that I live in Too Hot Here, USA. These are Palmetto bugs, and if you don’t know what a Palmetto bug is (and I did not, until 3 years ago), well, count yourself among the lucky. Because although it might make you think of fruity cocktails and lush green fronds, the reality…oh, the reality…. This is the roach royale, also by the name Bombay Canary and all sorts of other jolly euphemisms. It will work its way into your dreams and, in some cases, your closet, your bathroom and your laundry basket. When you go to the fridge for some ice water, there it will be waving its sensitive little antennae right in your eyes. So what to do?
Here is the advice of the ever-practical folks at whatsthatbug http://www.whatsthatbug.com/cockroaches.html
“Since they live outdoors, and can fly from location to location, mass annihilation of the species is the only way to keep them out of your yard. Since this is not feas[i]ble, and since they are not really pests, just a frighteningly large annoyance, I suggest learning to ignore them.”
Oh, three cheers. That “learning to ignore them” could take a lifetime. And not a pest? Please.
[Pest: from the French peste, late 15th century. Denoting the Bubonic plague.
Ok, so maybe it’s not a pest. Still, they do plague me, in a non-Bubonic kind of way.]
*One time, though (and you’ve heard the story), the roach came back. He survived death by electrocution, death by water and (almost—valiant creature) death by garbage disposal. I do have a sneaking suspicion that all of the mauled carcasses we toss so casually into the toilet rise up again underwater, their bodies becoming smooth and whole once again, their little minds remembering all.
I was just done eating breakfast in a perfectly civilized room, full of civilized things (woven rug, musty Harvard classics, pictures of dead relatives). And there he was, Monsieur le biological throwback. I could tell he felt embarrassed about it. He didn’t really want to be there, during my breakfast hour. It’s just that winter’s coming on, and what else is he to do? He scuttled over to the corner (scuttle really is being kind—there should be a special word for this kind of movement) and sort of pressed himself up against it. There were no gaps in the floorboard, though, and he kept hugging it, trying to make himself smaller. This was the part that, if he had not been more than two inches long, leggy, and crunchy-oozy, would have been cute.
But maybe it worked for him: I told bugmonster to go ahead and do his thing and swiftly departed without taking a whack at him (and it literally is a kind of whack that we—and by “we” I mean “not me”—take. N. has an electric tennis racket of death, meant to kill flies. With roaches, you get sparks rather than instant death, since these beasties are perfectly engineered to survive the nuclear holocaust. But it does stun them in a spectacular way and stacks the odds in your favor*).
This is not something I thought I would be doing in my life: choosing between saying fiddle dee dee or becoming intimate with crunch-ooze while I’m still in my polka-dot pajamas. And this is not just any crunch-ooze. Remember that I live in Too Hot Here, USA. These are Palmetto bugs, and if you don’t know what a Palmetto bug is (and I did not, until 3 years ago), well, count yourself among the lucky. Because although it might make you think of fruity cocktails and lush green fronds, the reality…oh, the reality…. This is the roach royale, also by the name Bombay Canary and all sorts of other jolly euphemisms. It will work its way into your dreams and, in some cases, your closet, your bathroom and your laundry basket. When you go to the fridge for some ice water, there it will be waving its sensitive little antennae right in your eyes. So what to do?
Here is the advice of the ever-practical folks at whatsthatbug http://www.whatsthatbug.com/cockroaches.html
“Since they live outdoors, and can fly from location to location, mass annihilation of the species is the only way to keep them out of your yard. Since this is not feas[i]ble, and since they are not really pests, just a frighteningly large annoyance, I suggest learning to ignore them.”
Oh, three cheers. That “learning to ignore them” could take a lifetime. And not a pest? Please.
[Pest: from the French peste, late 15th century. Denoting the Bubonic plague.
Ok, so maybe it’s not a pest. Still, they do plague me, in a non-Bubonic kind of way.]
*One time, though (and you’ve heard the story), the roach came back. He survived death by electrocution, death by water and (almost—valiant creature) death by garbage disposal. I do have a sneaking suspicion that all of the mauled carcasses we toss so casually into the toilet rise up again underwater, their bodies becoming smooth and whole once again, their little minds remembering all.
posted by betsytacy at 7:40 AM
2 Comments:
Wow. I have to think that the roach was able to create the babies just by wishing it to be so. No need for messy , earthy reproduction. They are so beyond that.
I promise I will not make a gross boy joke dealing with refilling the beer bottle and serving it to a willing and clueless friend.
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