Do I have to do everything?

This is what my life is really like. Seriously.

About thirty minutes ago I came strolling in from a night downtown at the Sommet Center watching PBR. Yes, you heard me. I said Professional Bull Riding. Amy C. and I marched ourselves right down to the arena and hooped and hollered with the best of them. It was fun and nobody died tonight--people die in that sport. Have you seen the movie 8 Seconds?

Someone was carted out on a stretcher tonight—oh, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. It seemed terribly bad, like 8-Seconds-the-movie-bad. One assumes it's bad when the cowboy doesn't try to get away from the bull that's stomping all over him and lies there unresponsive. Thankfully, he's OK. Only a concussion.

Anyway, so I walk through the door and Kristin, my trusty roommate looks at me all alarmed and proclaims: There's a roach behind the bookshelf. (By all means let me take off my cowboy boots and formulate a plan of attack.)

Kristin has a phobia about cockroaches—or maybe all crunch bugs. I might add that earlier this week I killed a bug that I have a major fear of—it's this cross between a cricket and a spider. I do not know what they are called only that they jump incredibly high and if you ever have one in your house you are screwed because they cannot be cornered. So the jumping spider-cricket flew out of my work bag and hit me in the forehead earlier this week—yes, I said forehead and yes, I almost had a heart attack. And I screamed for Kristin to get out of bed because I needed someone in the room with me when I killed it. So she got out of bed for the killing of the spider-cricket, however she stood behind me screaming and laughing at me the whole time.

So, the roach is behind the bookshelf. Kristin is telling the truth. And Kristin does not want to deal with this thing by herself. So I did what anybody who's about to wage war on a roach would do. I put on my pajamas and my Crocs.

And here's how our conversation went from there:

A: Well, get the broom.

K: I can't kill it. (Mind you, Kristen is down one arm right now. Her good arm is broken.)

A: Yes, you can. I'll scare it out with this rod (from the swiffer) and you just beat it to death with the broom.

K: I have a phobia. I can't kill it.

Always merciful, I responded with...

A: Yes, you can. It's part of your therapy.

So now I'm some sort of phobia psychiatrist?

We actually had a little bit of an advantage against the roach because of our positioning. We were running him into the corner.

So I moved the bookshelf forward and I've got my eye on this guy and he is HUGE. She was right. He was huge. And my question is, where the heck did he come from? I mean. Maybe be he just walked right in the front door. The bookshelf is right by the front door. I don't know. So I start poking at him.

A: Here's he comes, Kristin, here he comes.

K: (Screaming at the top of her lungs) I can't do it, Amy. I can't do it.

She is literally shaking. And she is frozen. Absolutely paralyzed by her fear of this thing. She's in a face-off with the roach. And she is paralyzed.

K: I'm paralyzed. I can't do it.

A: Yes, you can. Swing the broom.

K: I can't do it.

A: KILL the ROACH. Just KILL the ROACH, Kristin!

We are both screaming back and forth at each other standing about four feet apart.
Kristin is not attacking the roach.

A: Kristin. You are thirty years old. Pick up your broom and kill the darn roach.

At this point, I am screaming at her as if I have some sort of authority over her. I do not know why I am screaming at her like this.

Kristin is not attacking the roach. She is screaming and shaking. No swinging of the broom what. so. ever.

At this point I realize that she is truly paralyzed.

K: I can't handle the crunch.

A: (Yelling violently) DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING?

A: YOU ARE TAKING OUT THE TRASH FOREVER!
(So now I'm punishing her because I'm going to have to kill my second bug of the week? We are almost laughing and crying at the same time. We were both sweating at this point.)

At this point I grab the broom and start beating it. The roach was relentless. I pinned him down and Kristin had to come in with reinforcements with the swiffer rod. Finally, she pounces.

And he still did not die and we continue to scream and yell ugly things—Kristin screamed more and I yelled ugly things more, if anybody's counting.

The broom broke into three pieces. Still the roach is alive.

I just knew the neighbors were going to be on our front steps at any moment. And if they saw any of this going down through the front window there is no telling what they think.

And at moments like this, I really do not know how anyone lives alone. I mean, why would you want to? AND furthermore, it would be nowhere near as funny to kill bugs alone. I mean, you'd only have the fear and trembling and maybe the cursing, but no real laughter.

So the roach—shall I just say that I spoke a strong word over the cockroach as putted him (like a golf ball) out the front door with our broom handle. So strong that I cannot repeat it.