I hate roaches. Everyone knows that. If there's even the remote possibility that I might see one, I prefer it to be in the evening, when Darwin is home and will come deal with it after rolling his eyes at my initial shriek. So this morning I was infuriated when the four-year-old yelled, "Mommy! A big bug just crawled under the piano!"
In dealing with a roach I'm torn between, on the one hand, calling Darwin home from work, and on the other, not wanting to look like a big wuss in front of my daughters. If I'm gonna kill the thing, I have to get mad. I need the force of anger to kill an inch-long thing that flies and can survive a nuclear explosion.
Here's my Wimp Kills Roach formula: Work up a good head of steam over the fact that the disgusting creature dares to tresspass in my house, wait until it crawls out into the clear (angry mutterings of "Don't you dare go in that closet, or I'll kill you!"), whap it hard with a fly swatter or anything that allows me to stand way back, spray it with cleaning spray until it folds up, and then run the vacuum over it.
Then yell (silently, so the girls won't repeat it later): "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!"
Worth a Thousand Words: Sewing
1 hour ago