RAL NATU N WOMA
My phobia is well known to most all my friends, and during one particularly rainy season it was not uncommon for our daughter and her friends to arrive home to me standing on the coffee table, wielding a can of Raid like a six-shooter. After the first few times, they would nod knowingly at each other and whisper, “roach” as they made their way past me. My husband has come to recognize that there is a very specific intake of breath and an uncanny (and often violent looking) dance I do while screeching, “Get it! Get it! Get it!” that indicates a bug is in the house. He has perfected the skill of diving from his chair and slinging a book or newspaper with the accuracy of a trained killer. It is perfectly choreographed, and almost always followed by a great deal of eye rolling and the inevitable threat of the squashed bug being lobbed in my direction. The scourges of the southern climate, the creepy crawlers skitter across Lowcountry sidewalks, hurl themselves through the air at unsuspecting pedestrians and lie in wait to make cameo appearances in my nightmares. Their confidence in themselves only makes matters worse. Once, I watched with horror as a cheeky invader walked the entire breadth of the ceiling at a swanky cocktail party, and then sashayed down the wall to disappear behind a portrait of the host’s greatgrandfather. As it passed overhead, I was mesmerized and quite certain that I would strip naked in the middle of the room if it fell on me. There are those who attempt to gentrify the nasty things by referring to
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them as “Palmetto Bugs,” but let’s face it: though it gives me the willies to even say the word aloud, they are cockroaches, plain and simple. I can live with lizards and you can taunt me with toads. At reasonable distances, snakes don’t really bother me, and I can honestly say that until this moment I have never uttered the phrase, “Eek, a mouse!” However, the sinister, hairy-legged critters render me inarticulate, irrational and capable of jumping astoundingly high. I know they can’t hurt me, but experience has proven they can make me hurt myself.
Once, I watched with horror as a cheeky invader walked the entire breadth of the ceiling at a swanky cocktail party... I know good and well that I am not alone in my fear—just merely unembarrassed to admit it. Since I’m much more likely to be named Queen of Norway than I am to conquer it, I’ve stopped worrying that having the exterminator on speed dial makes me weird. I’ll always jump at scratchy sounds in the night and climb furniture at the sight of a darting shadow near the baseboards. I’ve yet to come out of my clothes in public because of it, but it’s probably only a matter of time. AM