Commentary; Posted: 12/8/04
A good exterminator is a valuable friend in NYC
Marissa Kristal
Guest Columnist
After having lived in New York City with a roommate for two years, I decided it was time to take the plunge. Although absolutely terrified to do so, my decision to move into a studio apartment was threefold. I felt that living alone would promote my independence, force me to be self-reliant, and strengthen my abilities as a caretaker, not only of myself, but of an apartment as well.
Iíve now been living here close to two months and can honestly say that these qualities have been growing within me every day, and I am thrilled that I am beginning to fulfill the goals I set for myself regarding living alone. Unfortunately, my newfound studio-dwelling confidence comes with a frightening price to pay. Cockroaches.
Anyone who knows me even the slightest bit understands that I am afraid of cockroaches. Actually, saying Iím afraid of cockroaches is as restrictive as saying little kids donít like asparagus. Kids hate asparagus along with lots of other veggies. Similarly, I hate cockroaches along with all bugs, insects, rodents, vermin, snakes, etc.
You get the idea. In fact, I am THAT GIRL that called the exterminator at work after she saw one tiny little millipede crawling around her cubicle. Yes, my entire office probably thinks Iím crazy, but come on, having that many legs is simply not natural! Just so weíre clear, I am also THAT GIRL that as a child fell in love with our household exterminator. Ohh Rick. I miss you Rick. Where art thou, Rick? Come live with me in my studio apartment in NYC, Rick?
Rick came to our house in Minnesota monthly. My mom would always tell me three days before his visits so that I could make a list for him of all the places I saw bugs. Sometimes I would make up bug-sightings just to ensure that Rick didn't miss a spot. Oh sweet Rick with his proton-pack looking bug spray. How I miss the days when I used to greet him at the door with a giant hug and a relief-filled smile!
But now, here I am living all alone in my studio apartment in New York City. And yeah, Iím independent. And yeah yeah yeah, so Iím self-sufficient and a caretaker and sure that's just wonderful and great, but all that went out the window tonight when I saw...GASP...my first....GASP....cockroach! GASP! RICK, WHERE ARE YOU?
What did I do? I froze. Then I burst into tears. Then I got mad. So I grabbed about five paper towels (I didn't trust just one, I needed enough padding so I couldn't feel Mr. Cucaracha squirming and struggling) and then I lunged forward as quickly as I could in a desperate attempt to slay my enemy...
I am telling this story two hours after my attempted cockroach killing, and I do not know if I successfully completely my mission. I was too terrified to peek into my cushion of paper towels and I didnít open my eyes again until the toilet had completely flushed. And even though I thoroughly fumigated my apartment with my handy maximum strength Raid, I am unsure if la cucaracha has perished.
Now the only thing I can do to make myself feel better is name the nasty bugger. You heard me right, I have to name him. Bob. His name is Bob. You see, by naming him, I humanize him. He becomes like a little pet, a friend, if you will. And I may be scared of bugs, but I am most definitely NOT scared of pets, or friends. So there we go, Bob it is. And let me tell you, Bobís robust size and swift agility puts every measly Minnesotan insect, er, I mean, pet/friend to shame.
But what sweet, little Bob doesnít realize is that this is all a feigned friendship. And my real friend is my (adored) apartment buildingís exterminator.
So Bob, be afraid. Be very afraid. Your annihilation is near.
Now letís just hope independent living doesnít present me with any friends disguised as mice.
Writer Marissa Kristal lives and works in New York City. She is a Twin City native who is a frequent summer visitor to Forest Lake.
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