I love my new house. I really, really do.
Everything is up on the walls. Has been since the first week when my sister and I morphed into maniac Martha Stewarts with our hammers, nails and furniture paint because we HAD TO HAVE EVERYTHING PERFECT THE MOMENT WE MOVED IN OR ELSE WE WERE GOING TO JUST DIE. It looks very put-together, in case you were wondering.
I have a whole room for my used bookstore/library/I-buy-way-too-many-books collection, complete with my awesome, brand new, green reading chair I found for a mere $35 at a local antique store. It doesn’t matter I haven’t actually gotten around to reading anything while sitting in said chair. The point is it’s there for when I eventually get around to it and looks pretty and bookish and amazing in all its tall, winged-back, velvety glory.
As of our Halloween housewarming party two weeks ago, the house has officially been broken in by copious amounts of drunk, cheerful friends and their spilled alcoholic beverages. My old, hand-painted beer pong table was even drug out and put to good use on our beautiful, spacious back deck.
So, see? My new house is wonderful. There’s just one teensy little problem.
Technically, problems—plural. They’re brownish-black with six spiky legs and turn my sister into a screaming, fleeing lunatic.
I’m talking about roaches. Don’t pretend you didn’t just shudder in disgust. It’s okay. We all have weaknesses.
Moving into an old midtown house that was previously vacant for at least a month, I sort of expected to see the occasional bug. Even after having Cook’s Pest Control spray pesticides in and around our house numerous times, we were told a few dead ones might turn up as the spray worked its magic.
The problem? They. Keep. Coming. Back.
My cat can only eat so many before he just starts flipping them over onto their backs so he can torture them and bat them around the hardwood floors like they’re nothing more than playful toys there for his amusement.
The second weekend after we had moved in, my sister came back from out of town to find random paint cans and a few of my solid, wooden candlesticks distributed throughout the house. They had served as my weapons of choice against the invaders because of their flat, unforgiving bottom surfaces. Except, once I slammed them down and heard the horrible crunch of the bugs being annihilated, I was too grossed out to lift said weapon back up and dispose of the dead bodies appropriately. I left them as is, hoping some magic bug fairy would come and clean them up while I slept. What do you mean, there’s no such thing as a magic bug fairy?
Look on the bright side, you say? I have a wonderful house in midtown and bugs can be exterminated? I guess you’re right. And really, I could look at this as a bonding experience between my new dwelling and me.
If standing on the slender edge of your bathtub in your narrow bathroom while holding a tall, wooden candlestick—aka roach killer—suspended in the air while you scream at a roach to please scurry onto the easily cleanable checkered tile floor because you refuse to spill bug guts all over the brand new, plush, gray bathroom rug its creepy bug legs are currently residing on, all while your sister conveniently watches from the safety of the hallway…well, if that doesn’t bond you and your new house for life, I honestly don’t know what would.
So, I guess I’ll stop complaining and pray the pest control service hurries up and starts actually controlling our pest problem. I just want to leave you with one, tiny disclaimer.
If you come over to our house and spot a large, tall, black, wooden candlestick seemingly positioned in a random spot in one of our rooms?
Don’t look under it. Trust me.
It’s for your own good.
PS – a NaNoWriMo update coming up next!