Husband: Your public needs you.
H: Your blog. You're losing fans.
Me: I only have, like, three fans.
H: All the more reason to keep at it!
So here I am. Back from the dead.
They say it's best to begin at the beginning. Actually, I don't know who "they" are, and since I don't know, and since I don't care, and since beginning at the beginning is basically impossible because I don't have a photographic memory and am basically too lazy to write down ideas when they hit me, I'll have to choose the path of least resistance and begin in the Middle.
For those who are fuzzy on the concept, this is what the Middle looks like:
Beginning ------------ Middle ------------- End
If only I was slightly more talented at photoshop I could have drawn an actual picture. =( But you get the idea. I am in the Middle of a lot of things: Husband's third rotation overseas, writing the Great American Novel, training for a race that I will eventually curse myself for running, treating the White Dog for her third ear infection in two months, deciding whether to put law on hold and try my hand at knife-throwing as a viable long-term career, etc.
The Middle is kind of exhausting.
One benefit of beginning in the Middle, though, is that it gives new perspective to things that happened way back in the Beginning. Case in point: a scenario that has come to be known around these parts as The Incident.
At the time of the Incident, Husband and I were just settling into our shiny new apartment in Singapore. After what seemed like YEARS of looking, I had found a place I thought was pretty close to perfect: quiet neighborhood, modern furnishings, grassy areas for the dogs, walking distance to a dog park, and within radius of McDonalds delivery (Husband's requirement). We moved in, had several borderline-ADHD buying sprees at IKEA (sample dialogue: "Holy crap! They have Flognut!" "But over here - whoa, Sprocken! Nobody has Sprocken!" "Let's get five of each color."), and generally congratulated ourselves on being masters of the rental market.
THE INCIDENT, PART I
Conscientious employee that he is, Husband was up early to shower for work. Unemployed slacker that I am, I was still in bed, hoping that Husband would not wake me up by singing Michael Bolton songs while he splashed water all over the bathroom (he celebrates the guy's entire catalog).
I prefer to picture the following scene through a lens of "Paranormal Activity"-level graininess for maximum effect.
Husband: Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD.
Me [under covers]: What?
Me: Is it Gordon? [Gordon is the gecko who hangs out in our apartment and scampers silently - and unnervingly swiftly - across the walls when agitated]
H: NO. IT IS NOT GORDON.
Me [exasperated]: What is it?
H: It's a FUCKING COCKROACH.
Me [thinking, Michael Bolton would definitely be preferable to this]: Kill it.
H [slight notes of desperation]: How do I kill it? These things are indestructible. Right?
Me: Hit it with something heavy.
H [voice rising]: I can't.
Me: What? Jesus.
[I get up to investigate; H points to top of shower curtain]
Me: It's huge.
H: In other circumstances I'd say "that's what she said," but I'm completely terrified right now.
H[slightly offended]: It was STARING AT ME in the shower the whole time!
Me [haha]: We have to get it off the curtain and onto a flat surface so we can kill it. Can you find a magazine or something?
H: OK [leaves; returns with magazine, spatula, pot holder and large reference book]. Just in case. [Pauses.] Can they fly?
Me: I think some of them can, but this one's probably too big. Just get it.
H: [swipes frantically at shower curtain].
Me: Where'd it go?!?
H: OHMYGOD. It's on the wall. It FLEW TO THE WALL!
Dogs: Bark! Bark!
Me: Hit it with the book!
Dogs: Bark! Bark!
H: No [exits bathroom rapidly, shuts door]. We can just board off this bathroom and use the other one. Good thing we got a big place.
Me: Oh, Jesus.
Me: [opens door, throws book on cockroach, checks to make sure cockroach does not have the Herculean strength necessary to survive such a blow]. I think it's dead.
H: Just leave the book there and close the door.
Me: What about the shower?
H: I'm never showering in there again.
THE INCIDENT, PART II
Later that day, I got a very disturbing text message from Husband, who had apparently shared his own personal "Psycho" shower scene with some appreciative co-workers. The co-workers, however, had given him some unpleasant news. The text read: "If you kill them their family and friends will come to investigate."
So, hurrah, a trip to the nearest shopping center was in order to get some industrial-strength bug killer. No sissy organic, good-for-the-earth bug killer for this girl. I wanted the kind so potent that it makes unborn babies grow extra limbs.
The closest store happened to be the Mustafa Centre, which is a 24-hour department store chock-full to the brim of awesomeness and cut-price Bollywood DVDs. It also has a grocery and hardware department. I asked the sales clerk where I could find roach killer.
Clerk: For roaches?
Me: Yes. To kill them.
Clerk: To eat them?
Me: No. To KILL them.
Clerk: Oh, for eating.
Me: No, for KILLING [makes knife motion across throat].
Clerk: Oh, ok. Second floor!
The second floor was the grocery department. FOR EATING.