A Tale of Daring and Bravery

This is my kitchen, as it looked yesterday morning:

Those light brown things up above are the cabinets, the dark brown ones are the counters. The big beige rectangle in the middle is a pole that was built in the middle of the kitchen for no particular reason.

The light blue things are clean dishes, the rectangle to the left is the door to the closed balcony, where we keep the gray thing, which is our stove. And the little black dot halfway up the door frame is AAAAAAHHHH COCKROACH RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don't like cockroaches.

Just to make it clear up front, it's not like I get cockroaches because my house is dirty, or anything. We live in a humid urban environment, so there are zillions of cockroaches just living their little disgusting lives outside on the street, and sometimes they get in the house. It could happen to anyone.

Also, my house is filthy. It's just filthy in an unrelated kind of way.

So I saw the cockroach, and my first thought was, I have to call Viggie. Viggie is in charge of cockroach disposal. He has helped me take care of dozens of cockroaches. The conversation usually goes like this:

Me: I need you to kill a cockroach RIGHT NOW.
Him: Where?
Me: AAAAAAHHH it's HUGE!!! It's COMING FOR ME!!!
Him: WHERE?
Me: I saw it last night, at about two in the morning. I think it was in the kitchen, or maybe the living room.
Him: Are you sure it was a cockroach?
Me: It was definitely a black thing.
Him: So you need me to kill what you think was a bug, that you saw a few hours ago in what you think might have been the living room.
Me: YES. And NOW. Because it's COMING TO KILL ME.
Him: I... uh... already killed that one.
Me: Oh thank God.

I did briefly consider avoiding bothering Viggie at work by just not going into the kitchen for the rest of the day, but the problem is, it wasn't just dirty dishes and stuff in there. My ice coffee was in the fridge (you can't see the fridge in my picture, but trust me, I would have been directly in the cockroach's line of sight, assuming they have one).

But then, as I looked for my perpetually-misplaced cell phone so I could make the call, I had a realization: we had a can of cockroach poison in the kitchen. And then a second realization: perhaps I, too, was capable of handling the cockroach. As long as I didn't have to go anywhere near it.

So I boldly edged my way nervously into the kitchen, trying to keep my whimpering quiet enough that the cockroach wouldn't hear. My hand found the poison. And then I leaped forth in an epic moment in which courage triumphed over fear, and danger brought forth the true greatness of the human spirit.

The cockroach ran between the counter and the wall, and I felt confident that it was dead. Probably from laughter. That counts too.

In the end I had to bother Viggie at work anyway, so that I could tell him about my noble efforts on his behalf. I could tell from his silence that he was overcome by awe.

Then I had to rewash the dishes, because some idiot had sprayed cockroach poison near them. That part went fine, except for the normal fear that the cockroach I (possibly) killed had become a zombie, and was RIGHT NOW AS I STAND HERE assembling an army of zombie cockroaches to come after me (you have that fear too, right?).

And then I got to enjoy my ice coffee. (<-- this is how all stories should end)