Throwback Thursday – Facing My Frog

I was going through some of my earliest posts the other day and I realized that they are SO MUCH BETTER than what I’m writing now. I don’t know why I don’t write like that anymore. I used to be funny, sarcastic, ironic and witty. Maybe the Mister has just stopped doing so many blog-worthy things, or maybe the island has changed what I consider to be funny. I’m not sure. But at any rate, I realize that a lot of my readers have joined since we moved to the ocean and have probably never read those oh-so-wonderful early entries. So, partly because I want to be awesome again and partly because Top Ten Thursdays are getting harder and harder to write, I’m going to start scattering in a few “Throwback Thursdays,” where I will resurrect some of my favorite original entries for the enjoyment of you new folks and the remembering pleasure of you older fans.

This entry was originally posted on July 9, 2012, less than two months after the Mister and I got married. Considering our current centipede problems, I’ve come to believe that maybe these little nightmares aren’t quite so bad after all.

Facing My Frog
Our apartment is certainly not a Martha Stewart home by any stretch of the imagination, but I do work hard to at least keep it clean and somewhat organized.

One of many reasons why a cockroach in the bathroom sink is a problem.

But, problem or not, there he was – at 2:30 a.m. – failing his legs in the air near the drain.

I will admit my first response was rather stereotypical: I shrieked and hoped my husband would come save me.

But he slept on. (Good to know in case a crazy ax-murderer ever breaks into our home.)

Well, it’s a commonly known fact that cockroaches don’t die. Ever. They will be here after the nuclear holocaust has destroyed the rest of creation. So obviously smashing it was not a viable option and would only further contaminate my sink.

The only realistic course of action was to somehow transfer the revolting creature to the toilet – a mere 12 inches away – and flush him. But how?

Now I must admit that, in this situation, I was rather fortunate the intruder was stuck on his back. Because, of course, a cockroach on his back is a hundred times better than a cockroach on his legs.

(Those little devils are FAST!)

I first tried scooping him out of the sink on an old toilet paper roll from the trash, but realized the slope would flip him onto his legs. Obviously a very bad idea.

After about forty-five minutes of frantic deliberation and several more shrieks (the mister never woke up) I finally got the roach into a plastic cup and dumped him into the toilet.

I flushed four times, just to be sure, and finally woke my husband and cried like the terrified sissy-girl I sometimes am.

I learned several things from this very early morning encounter with fear itself, starting with the fact that it’s best not to know what may be lurking in the plumbing.

Secondly, the mister is an incredibly heavy sleeper. If I am kidnapped from our home in the middle of the night hopefully one of our neighbors will hear my screams and call the police. Because he sure won’t.

Thirdly, sewer-dwelling bugs are most definitely a boy’s job. Early morning or not, the next time I find a multi-legged creature of any kind I’m letting my husband take care of it. I’m all for strong women, but there are certain lines that have to be drawn.

And, last but not least, the saying is true that “if you swallow a frog in the morning, nothing worse will happen to you for the rest of the day.”

But when it comes to cockroaches, I’d rather flush.


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