03.30.17, 10:443pm: Roaches: The Price of Paradise.

Me: *walks in to utility room* Ooo, big roach.

Roach: *on its back*

Weez: *calmly from kitchen* Where?

Dingo: *runs in to utility room* BUG?!

Me: *gets bug spray from garage*

Us: *all in utility room now*

Me: *sprays roach*

Roach: *flips over* AHHHHHHHHH!

Me & Weez: AHHHHHHHHH!

Dingo: BUG!

Me: *drowns cornered roach in chemicals*

Roaches are simply part of life here in Florida. It isn’t a cleanliness thing either. It’s warm and humid pretty much all year. They’re everywhere. Even if a person keeps their living space crumb-free, one or two will find their way inside at some point.

Pest control is a $13 billion industry, and that’s just in the US.

Prior to moving to the deep South, I would freak out if I saw one in my mom’s house who moved here long before I did. They just weren’t anything I had to deal with when I lived in Ohio. Being in Florida since 2009, well, there are degrees of freaking out ranging from being caught off guard slightly to full-on screaming.

I guess you could say I have a Roach Plan of Attack now.

Never trust a roach on its back.

I think it’s a sign they’ve given up on the roach life. However, if they aren’t quite dead yet, those suckers will spring into action at the slightest movement towards them, and that’s when the screaming starts. I’ve learned: spray first. At least then, they’re slowed down, a little, by the daze of oily chemicals and imminent death is close at hand—my hand.

If it’s moving and on the floor, I set the Dingo after it, “Get the bug!,” while I scramble to get the spray. The Dingo also knows now, when I’m on the move like that, there’s a bug. She’s on my heels waiting for me to tell her where it is so she switch from spaz to hunter.

If it’s on the wall or ceiling and I can’t reach it. Well, I do that shivering thing and keep an eye on it, hoping it doesn’t crawl in to the vent… Once it’s in range, I’ll attempt to knock it down with spray; leaving a big oily spot on the wall, and all over my furniture because they move fast and sometimes, they fly.

The ones that fly, folks call them Palmetto bugs. Bullshit. It’s a cockroach with wings. I scream bloody murder while haphazardly spraying chemicals in an attempt to connect with it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

If they’re outside. I leave them alone. That’s their turf. They come in the house? Well, they’re probably going to die in a puddle of whatever chemical I have closest to me.

I’m always well stocked on all sorts of bug spray.

Sometimes I do save them, if they’re the big ones that probably crawled in under the door. I’ve developed a sort of wavering sympathy for roaches, I guess. More than likely, though, they won’t make it out of the house alive if they’ve made their presence known.

The thing is, if there’s one, there are potentially thousands. *shivers* Sometimes, that one is a scout; they’ve outgrown their space and are looking for resources. I think the horde doesn’t take notice if the scout doesn’t come back, though.

We can control them, but we can’t get rid of them.

Roaches are one of the prices of paradise.

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