The battle of las cucarachas

I don’t consider myself a particularly squeamish person. For a girl, at least.

Blood does not cause me to gasp and faint and I actually really enjoy a good horror movie. Even bugs don’t typically bother me, at least not the little ones — I am a Richmond Spider, after all.

But when it comes to cockroaches, I can’t even type that word without sending shivers up my spine and shudders throughout my body. Roaches and camel crickets, or as I call them, “jumpy things,” are the two bugs that I really cannot stomach. Seeing one of those dark brown spots scurrying across my floor pales my face and tightens my insides.

When I was little, we had thick vines surrounding one side of our house, a perfect dark, damp breeding ground for those disgusting pests. My parents have since removed the vines and the bugs are now scarce. But on many occasions, I would find myself face to face with a monster roach, whether it was in my shower, on my bedroom carpet or crawling up a curtain.

“Daaaad!” I would call. “I need you!”

Valiant and brave, my dad would come to the rescue, armed with a paper towel, and save me from my captors. That may sound extreme, but seeing a roach halts me in my step. The sight makes me want to throw up, but I can’t do anything except stare at it, fiercely monitoring its position until Dad comes to save me.

I’m not sure where my phobia of roaches came from, but my encounters growing up didn’t help.

There was one wretched night in high school that will forever haunt my memory. Mom and Dad were already asleep and I was up late, as usual, finishing my homework. I was sitting on my bed when I looked down and saw a giant roach crawling along the baseboard. I froze, frantically trying to figure out a game plan.

That’s when I saw it.

Another roach was carefully making its way up the side of my bed toward my pillow. My pillow. I about barfed all over my bed just at the thought of that disease-ridden creature carousing my haven of sleep. I jumped off the bed and stood there in a trance, not knowing what to do.

I can’t even entertain the idea of squashing a roach with a napkin or shoe; to feel the bug in my hand through a paper towel would surely send me over the edge. And hearing the crunch and cleaning up the mess from a murder-by-footwear was not even an option.

I was so horrified and disgusted that I began to shake. Then I began to cry. That’s how I feel about roaches.

Ultimately I think I grabbed my usual weapon of choice — the vacuum — and sucked those buggers up. But I can’t be sure, I think I blacked out.

Roaches: 1. Me: 0.

Thankfully I haven’t yet encountered any mutant roaches in my apartment, though I have come across a few babies from time to time. And where there’s one baby, there’s probably thousands. Ew.

So when I heard from a neighbor that our landlords had discovered a roach infestation in the basement thanks to an untidy and now-evicted tenant, a wave of nausea swept over me. The building was scheduled for a bug bomb Monday, which meant I had to pack up all my food and dishes and anything I didn’t want contaminated by bug bomb particles.

A friend and I managed to load every dish — and I have a lot — out of my cabinets and into my fridge, freezer, oven and dishwasher. It was a hassle, especially since now I have to unload them all, but I would do much more to stop those roaches in their tracks.

Score one for me against las cucarachas.

Catherine Amos needs to excuse herself to the vomitorium after writing this column. She can be reached at 825-0771 ext. 138 or .