got to kill a cockroach or two

I see many appeals of marriage, but tonight by far the most pressing was the need for a man to remove a dead cockroach from the kitchen sink.

The cockroach did not begin the night dead in the kitchen sink.  I, in fact, have no idea where it began the night, as we generally run in quite different circles socially.  I had been at Bible study.  I fear I cannot say the same for the cockroach.

Later in the evening I thought I was doing a very good job of minding my own business, looking up shows I wanted to see and doing laundry and -- this was the big mistake -- washing dishes.

Seeing as I don't cook, the only dishes I had were two bowls (cereal), two cups (tea) and two spoons (tea and cereal).  You'd think the amount of time it takes to wash six minor kitchen articles would be, of all the time the cockroach could avoid the kitchen sink, prime on its list.  You'd think wrong.

I was just beginning the task when who should appear but my latest nemesis.  He's been sneaking around a bit lately (I once caught him making a nuisance of himself on the freshly washed dishes and debated long and hard whether or not this was information I was morally obliged to pass on to my flatmate or if, perhaps, the old "what she doesn't know can't hurt her" would be more to the point.) and, might I point out, we are not on Good Terms.

I endeavor to be on Good Terms with all those I share a home with, though honestly I put a lot more effort into the relationships with those who are actually on the lease.  Cocky, by my calculations, has not paid a single cent.  He is not at the top of my priority list, and he has been making a nuisance of himself.  Any self-respecting cockroach would have been avoiding me with a passion.

Clearly Cocky was not self-respecting.  Perhaps he was suicidal.  I have no idea, I really did not stop for a chat.  Well, I did sort of chat, but it was more to myself and the world at large than Cocky.

"Disgust!" I cried.  "Revulsion!"

(Yes, I really do talk like that when startled by creatures such as Cocky.  I try to curb such tendencies when meeting humans of whom I am less fond, and, I am pleased to report, am generally highly successful.)

Despite these clear indications of Bad Terms, Cocky did not flee.  Instead he ended up in the sink.  How exactly he got there I am not entirely sure, as it is all rather a blur of cockroach and boiling water and frantic movements to extract Dishes That FOOD Goes On! from the clutches of cockroach-ness for me.  Within instants Cocky was lying curled up at the bottom of my kitchen sink, utterly unable and unwilling to exit via the drain, which was what I was suggesting he do.  He was really too big for that, and I was in no mood to spare his sensitive feelings by hiding the fact.

"Why am I not married?!" I cried, again to the world at large.  "How else am I supposed to extract the dead cockroach from the sink?!"

Perhaps you do not understand why a cockroach in the sink was such a big deal.  You were not there.  It was.

I am, you see, perfectly capable of moving to the other side of the world, setting up a phone service, acquiring internet, renting a flat, finding a job, paying bills, filing for my taxes and maintaining a blog by myself, but it is at extracting dead cockroaches from sinks that I really, well, would draw the line if I could.

I've been a bit squeamish about a few such matters since childhood , though I will say tonight I managed not to actually shriek and wake my flatmate, for which I think significant credit is due.

Generally I keep a mental list of all the household-y type things I'm after a guy to do, and then I hold monthly games nights (clever, huh?) wherein my guests get the great privilege of changing my light bulbs and hanging my pictures.  (Bit frustrating when the light bulbs die just after one though and I have to, say, shower in the dark for three weeks.  Really, I would know.)

One time I actually had to hold a specific cards afternoon because half the bulbs in the flat were out and desperate times were calling for desperate measures.  Can you believe that was the very same day I accidentally got the measuring cups stuck in the silverware drawer and literally -- literally! -- had to have three guys pull it together in order to break the cups and reopen the drawer?  Thank goodness for good timing.  I was so grateful I let them win.

Tonight's escapade, though, even I felt required faster action than this Friday.  It is only three days, but, as I said, I really do draw the line at dead cockroaches in my sink.  I do have a friend who works in mental health and tells me about clients with flats in far worse states of disarray, but I'd much prefer to remain friends that become his latest client.  I stared at the dead cockroach and tried to work out if it was pretending.

Animals do that, don't they?  Curl up in  ball and play dead?  I had my suspicions that's what Cocky was about, but seeing as we were clearly no where near Speaking Terms, he didn't see fit to answer me.  He also didn't see fit to squeeze himself down the drain or turn over and walk away with a merry wave either, so I resorted swaying in the middle of the kitchen and waiting for a man to materialize.

When he didn't, I made the executive decision of grabbing a wad of napkins and putting on a pink rubber glove to remove the vermin with.  After feeling the wad through the glove, I ascertained it was not nearly thick enough and grabbed a bigger wad of napkins to add to it.  I also preemptively opened the trash can.

Thus equipped, I gave Cocky one last chance (though at that point I remain thankful he didn't take it, because it would really have set me on edge if he did a backflip while I was attempting to extract him) at making a dash for it, then, with the same sort of air of ripping a Band-Aid off hair, I made one swift motion that ended, I presume, with a dead cockroach in the trash can.  There's certainly a lot of napkins there.

I then removed the rubber glove and promptly washed my hands with hot water (it was rather conveniently still running, though had gotten frankly much too hot) and Bath and Body Works Vanilla Bean hand soap, which is really pretty perfect for occasions such as this.

If only there had been a man around to smell it.