So, there I am, in the girl’s room, mid-pee, when a GIANT water bug (we call them sewer roaches because they are disgusting, huge, live around water and come in through your plumbing) runs right over my foot (MOTHER FUCKER!!!!!) and decides to hang out by the bathroom door.
I, being the little scaredy cat that I am, start screaming expletives by the dozen.
“Fuck! Shit! What do I do? How do I kill this fucking nightmare? Why me? Someone kill me! Ahhhhh fuck! No! Just no! Shit! Shit! Why did God make these fuckers so big? How are they helping the environment? Fuuuuuuuuuuck me!”
With nothing but abject horror coursing through my veins, I jump up (yes, dripping did occur) and stand there, terrified, like a deer in the headlights.
I’m too scared to even pull up my drawers because taking my eyes off it for even a moment might lead to its escape.
I’m too scared to NOT pull up my drawers because what if it comes after me, with the vengeance that I know is in its disgusting little heart, and runs up my leg into my who-ha.
I’m too scared to try and get past it, so I stand there doing the hoppy-scared-shitless dance.
I’m too scared that if I do get past it to try and find the weapon of its demise, because I can’t see anything in the damn bathroom to end its life with, that it will escape and I’ll find it resting happily on my mouth as I’m trying to go to sleep tonight. (There is NO coming back from that–mental institution, prep me a room.)
I’m too scared to squish it, as it’s the size of a small dog. And I have nothing to squish it with except part of my own body (ummmm… no. Never. Not happening. Nope.).
So, I grab the Paul Mitchell Freeze and Shine hairspray and drown it.
I mean, I emptied half that damn bottle onto the dog-sized sewer roach. No amount of alcohol-filled product could be enough to kill that survive-a-nuclear-bomb nightmare of a predator.
I soak that bastard until I ruin the hardwood floor with all the hairspray. And then I wait. And wait. And wait.
After waging war with my own brain for 10 minutes (“Jodi, the damn thing is dead. It’s safe to move.” versus “Are you fucking kidding? Don’t you dare move! It’s playing opossum!”) I finally ran past it, screaming and twitching from the horror, grabbed a bowl from the kitchen, returned to the scene of the crime, and sealed it in its bowl sarcophagus.
I had the twitchies for the next two days. I KNEW that every itch was some gruesome, prehistoric beetle digging its way into my skin or crawling around in my hair. Of course it wasn’t, but damn if you could tell that to my brain. Thank God I sleep with ear plugs or I’d have never slept with the fear of its relatives laying eggs in my ears.
I still fear retribution from its friends and family.
And no, I have not been back into that bathroom yet. Nope. Need more time to heal. 😉