The Time I Was Outsmarted by Cockroaches

At the risk of  giving you all the impression that my home is a dirty, roach-infested wasteland, I present a horror story so foul that will make you want to go to sleep with the lights on... so those little insects have the keen sense of not emerging from their daytime hiding spots when everyone is asleep in the dark. As everyone knows, cockroaches are the Keebler Elves of the insect world.

If you are mortified of roaches, please find your softest and most cuddly teddy bear before you start to read. Or skip reading this post altogether.

Still here? Okay. Let's continue.

It doesn't matter how intelligent I am, nor that I have a college degree that proves I am a cultured, literate young woman: experiences with the animal kingdom inevitably show that I can't control my very instinctive and human reactions.

One late evening (technically, it was very early morning), I made my way to use the sole bathroom that is in my apartment. Since I do not live alone, I have the habit of locking the door to prevent any mishaps of someone walking in on me. The locking mechanism of said bathroom's door shuts with the push of a button. This is easier for my grandmother so she doesn't have to struggle to twist something minuscule with her shaky fingers.

Anyway, over the years, I have developed a fairly mindless procedure for entering the bathroom. I open the door, I turn on the light switch and, still having the door open, I lock it.

But that late evening, something was different. When I looked up at the ceiling and glanced around the walls, I realized that I was not alone.

I saw not one.

Not two.

But THREE cockroaches crawling on the bathroom walls, all at least 2 inches /5 cm long.

Now, I am not one to become squeamish at seeing roaches because I don't have a particular phobia against them, and growing up in Florida only helped me to get accustomed to seeing all sorts of animals invade my home: ants, roaches, Anole lizards, even the odd snake or two. Hanny, my blogging partner-in-crime, can certainly confirm that when it comes to killing those dastardly insects, I will be the one to step forward and destroy them with steel resolve.

I'll admit that I cringed momentarily when I was confronted by three of them at once in the bathroom, yet was determined to not be conquered by these ghastly intruders and let them get the better of me.

Still, their sheer size alone should have been an indication, nay, a warning, that they had weathered enough difficulties in their tough, roachy lives to have survived to grow that large.

It didn't matter that I was at least 32 times taller than they were and outweighed them by maybe 500 times their body weight; when those menacing creatures spread their wings and kamikazed off their horizontal perches straight at my face, all bets were off.

Oh, the joys of living in Florida. We get heat, humidity, hurricanes, thunderstorms, the occasional tornado and congregating flying roaches that participate in monthly meetings of "scare-the-crap-outta-humans."

Fearing that those little, brown, turd-shaped bastards were going to kill me, I shut the door in instinctive fright and created a barricade that separated me from the trio of evil flying roaches.

A locked barricade.

Yes, I had slammed the door shut. With the lock set in place. To the only bathroom in the entire apartment. I refer to this scenario as a classic "oh, shit" moment.

The second I realized that I had locked myself out, it was as if my life of having access to a bathroom  flashed before my eyes and horrid thoughts of impending doom filled my head. "How am I going to shower? Or brush my teeth? My shampoo is in there!  Where am I supposed to pee? MY PAUL MITCHELL HAIR MOUSSE IS TRAPPED IN THERE! NOOOOOO!!! I MUST SAVE IT FROM THE ROACHES!!!"

On the bright side, no matter how much heaving and pushing I did against the door, I can confirm that the lock works perfectly at keeping it shut. This will prove to be extremely useful when I take cover in the bathroom from the robbers, rapists and serial killers who are sure to invade my home one of these nights.

However, I couldn't let the bathroom stay shut forever. There had to be some way to wrench it open. As I took a deep breath to control the panic that had seeped into my nervous system, I leaned down and observed the door knob. I noticed that it had a very small hole. One that needed to be pierced by a small wire of some sort. I gasped. This was going to be my chance to practice all of the cool stuff that I had seen on T.V.!

First, I tried to open the door by poking the hole with a bobby pin. That didn't work.Then I MacGyverred a trombone-shaped paper clip into a spear and fidgeted with the hole for a few minutes.

But it was no use. I was going to need the key. Thus my promising career as a world-class jewelry heist thief was dashed because a lock and three roaches foiled me. The only question remaining for me was: where was the key? I had a vague knowledge that the key did exist. Somewhere. In my apartment.

The only person with that knowledge was Mom and I didn't want to wake her up at 2 a.m. Feeling like a rather useless child instead of a fully-functioning adult, I wrang my hands and nervously danced on the spot. What was I going to do? What was going to happen?

When I thought that I would sink into my deepest despair, a totally anonymous, costumed avenger appeared next to me with a key. Oddly enough, she had my mother's build and short hair-style. She didn't say much, only revealing that she called herself Super Mom. She inserted her magical golden key into the door knob and saved the day.

Seeing that a little ol' sissy coward like me had been traumatized by the disgusting roaches, Super Mom bucked up and charged into the bathroom with a broom. Soon, my dreaded enemies were defeated in three fell swoops.

It's moments like these that make me wish that I were half of the woman Super Mom is. I may be twenty-five years old, but I honestly don't know what I would do without her courage, guidance and foresight. Super Mom is my hero.

I also add that this experience of locking myself out of the bathroom has made me question whether or not I am fit to survive in the world alone (the fact that I still live at home further proves this point). I mean, having a job and paying the bills is the easy part, but should that fateful day when I become independent come, who will be there to exterminate kamikaze roaches for me? My flip-flop? Raid bug spray? The Exterminator, the Terminator's much-less-well-known cousin?

Barb the French Bean