How to Kill a Cockroach
I've heard that cockroaches can survive an atomic bomb. They are disgusting, dirty, black, flying bugs that don't have any purpose and I still boggle over how they survived the theory of evolution. I hate cockroaches. I hate finding them because they're faster, stronger, and more durable than any bug spray or sole of a sandal. I hate them because they love dark, dirty, damp places, and I always discover them when I wake up in the middle of the night and turn on the lights. I hate everything about them, especially those relentless antennae that vibrate constantly.
Last night, after a 10:00 pm dinner and some tea at my Bedouin neighbor's, I stumbled home at 11 pm, dreaming of collapsing in my bed and digesting my food unconsciously. What was waiting for me when I opened the front door? A lonely, mid-life-crisis, black-as-coal cockroach. I immediately set out on a mission to destroy it. I wanted no trace of it in my house, and its corpse was going to be tossed to the howling cats who prey my front and back yard. I immediately grabbed the PifPaf that Peace Corps office supplies us, but it's no more than a bug spray that does little but make the entire house stink. So I was running around, chasing the cockroach with a can of PifPaf, while he excitedly danced around my cement floors, teasing me with his pulsating antennae.
I had the irrestible temptation to grab my flipflop and squash him into a flat blob on the sole of my sandal. But my friend had recently warned me that killing a cockroach with a shoe not only makes you cringe as you hear its shell crack, but is also countereffective. Any eggs that a cockroach may be harvesting can still survive even after a cockroach is killed. I didn't want to risk waking up one morning and finding my sandal, the guillotine for this night's cockroach, swarming with mini-monsters.
I decided to burn that sucker alive. Yes, I would torch this thing to death. Maybe it's from two years of watching village boys abuse stray cats with rocks. Or maybe it's constantly seeing my neighbor's six-year-old son hit the goats with a hose for no reason other than to remind them that he's the boss' son. Or maybe it's hearing the donkey's plea for mercy as a gang of bored Bedouin boys tease it by hitting it with a tree branch from all angles. I didn't have any mercy for this cockroach; it had invaded my territory and it was going to pay the consequences. Plus, it had delayed my long-deserved bedtime.
I grabbed the matches sitting unopened in the kitchen, and lit one. I quickly realized I didn't know how to time it so that the flame would hit the cockroach, and timidly hesitated. The cockroach scurried to a corner where it couldn't hide behind any boxes or shoes. Oh, yes, Mindy, this is your moment to shine! Unleash the pyromaniac in you!
I relit a second match, aimed it directly 5 inches from my prey, and quickly sprayed that worthless PifPaf at the line of fire. I hit the bull's eye. There was a humongous explosion, which echoed off my cement walls. The PifPaf spray spout caught on fire, and I dropped the can on the floor to extinguish the fire (which is what most girls probably would've done had they been holding a can on fire). I was gleeful, joyful, giddy, laughing explosively and deeply. There's no other way to explain it except to say that explosion was awesome. It was intense. I saw the cockroach squirming, and I swear it was a darker shade of black then earlier. I had charred it. Amazingly, it was still squirming. I squatted over it, still laughing from my self-created explosion that had killed this fugly enemy. Yes, die, you worthless, beady-eyed creepy-crawly.
Two minutes later, the exhilaration had worn off slightly and I was no longer laughing, but still thrilled with my mini-bomb. I was still squatting over the squirming, struggling cockroach, amazed that it hadn't died yet. These things really probably do survive atomic bombs. I didn't want to squash its guts all over my cement floor, where who knows what dormant eggs could hatch. I grabbed 5 tissue papers, created enough layers so that I wouldn't touch the cockroach no matter what, and picked it up.
I opened the window and dropped that sucker on my front porch. I didn't care that I'd probably find it the next morning; I was so happy to have gotten rid of it and to have killed it with fire.
The next morning, when I opened my door at 5:15 am to do my hour walk through the apricot farms, I saw the cockroach's corpse lying on my front porch. It looked like it was still moving, but upon closer inspection, I realized that it was covered with ants eating its body. I secretly wouldn't mind if I found another cockroach in my house. Don't get me wrong; I still hate them. But if I stumbled upon another one crawling through my house, it'd just mean another chance to whip out the matches and PifPaf and light that sucker on fire.
Last night, after a 10:00 pm dinner and some tea at my Bedouin neighbor's, I stumbled home at 11 pm, dreaming of collapsing in my bed and digesting my food unconsciously. What was waiting for me when I opened the front door? A lonely, mid-life-crisis, black-as-coal cockroach. I immediately set out on a mission to destroy it. I wanted no trace of it in my house, and its corpse was going to be tossed to the howling cats who prey my front and back yard. I immediately grabbed the PifPaf that Peace Corps office supplies us, but it's no more than a bug spray that does little but make the entire house stink. So I was running around, chasing the cockroach with a can of PifPaf, while he excitedly danced around my cement floors, teasing me with his pulsating antennae.
I had the irrestible temptation to grab my flipflop and squash him into a flat blob on the sole of my sandal. But my friend had recently warned me that killing a cockroach with a shoe not only makes you cringe as you hear its shell crack, but is also countereffective. Any eggs that a cockroach may be harvesting can still survive even after a cockroach is killed. I didn't want to risk waking up one morning and finding my sandal, the guillotine for this night's cockroach, swarming with mini-monsters.
I decided to burn that sucker alive. Yes, I would torch this thing to death. Maybe it's from two years of watching village boys abuse stray cats with rocks. Or maybe it's constantly seeing my neighbor's six-year-old son hit the goats with a hose for no reason other than to remind them that he's the boss' son. Or maybe it's hearing the donkey's plea for mercy as a gang of bored Bedouin boys tease it by hitting it with a tree branch from all angles. I didn't have any mercy for this cockroach; it had invaded my territory and it was going to pay the consequences. Plus, it had delayed my long-deserved bedtime.
I grabbed the matches sitting unopened in the kitchen, and lit one. I quickly realized I didn't know how to time it so that the flame would hit the cockroach, and timidly hesitated. The cockroach scurried to a corner where it couldn't hide behind any boxes or shoes. Oh, yes, Mindy, this is your moment to shine! Unleash the pyromaniac in you!
I relit a second match, aimed it directly 5 inches from my prey, and quickly sprayed that worthless PifPaf at the line of fire. I hit the bull's eye. There was a humongous explosion, which echoed off my cement walls. The PifPaf spray spout caught on fire, and I dropped the can on the floor to extinguish the fire (which is what most girls probably would've done had they been holding a can on fire). I was gleeful, joyful, giddy, laughing explosively and deeply. There's no other way to explain it except to say that explosion was awesome. It was intense. I saw the cockroach squirming, and I swear it was a darker shade of black then earlier. I had charred it. Amazingly, it was still squirming. I squatted over it, still laughing from my self-created explosion that had killed this fugly enemy. Yes, die, you worthless, beady-eyed creepy-crawly.
Two minutes later, the exhilaration had worn off slightly and I was no longer laughing, but still thrilled with my mini-bomb. I was still squatting over the squirming, struggling cockroach, amazed that it hadn't died yet. These things really probably do survive atomic bombs. I didn't want to squash its guts all over my cement floor, where who knows what dormant eggs could hatch. I grabbed 5 tissue papers, created enough layers so that I wouldn't touch the cockroach no matter what, and picked it up.
I opened the window and dropped that sucker on my front porch. I didn't care that I'd probably find it the next morning; I was so happy to have gotten rid of it and to have killed it with fire.
The next morning, when I opened my door at 5:15 am to do my hour walk through the apricot farms, I saw the cockroach's corpse lying on my front porch. It looked like it was still moving, but upon closer inspection, I realized that it was covered with ants eating its body. I secretly wouldn't mind if I found another cockroach in my house. Don't get me wrong; I still hate them. But if I stumbled upon another one crawling through my house, it'd just mean another chance to whip out the matches and PifPaf and light that sucker on fire.
