Sleeping with the light on

Update on my housing requirements: I was wrong: Cockroaches are a deal breaker. In last week's post, I waffled a bit. Apparently I wasn't sure. Today, I no longer have any doubts. I can abide cockroaches temporarily (while I actively try to kill them), but I will not knowingly choose lodging that is infested. How did I suddenly become so certain? It's not hard to figure out. I've spent the last week fighting cockroaches.

I'm sorry to say, my friend's happy little house in the suburb has a problem. I discovered it the same way I discovered the problem at the Bat Cave, my former abode in an apartment complex in Tucson. The first morning I found a dying cockroach on its back in the den and a lethargic cockroach that had found its way into my shopping bag and marooned itself in my big green coffee cup. Neither one of these bugs was in good shape. My first thought, as I altruistically rescued them and dumped them in the backyard, was that the extermination fumes were working, and that I was seeing only the dregs of something, which I hoped was that these near-dead vermin were in the throes of succumbing to the work of a competent and thorough pest exterminator. 

My first thought, as is often the case, was wildly incorrect. 

During the second night of my stay, I got up to use the bathroom and interrupted a cockroach family hoedown. The scattering of roach babies on the floor in front of the toilet was my first clue, but it took my bleary eyes a moment to process what I was seeing. Then I saw four large adults—when I say large, I mean about one inch long, not counting antennae—hustling to escape under or behind something. 

I hurried to the laundry room and grabbed the first useful weapon I could find: a spray bottle of Clorox. By now the adults had disappeared, but I mowed down the babies. They are easy prey. First they freeze, trying to look like any other inocuous piece of detritus on the floor, and then when they know the jig is up, they run for it. But they are slow and stupid, no match for me with a bottle of Clorox. I cleaned up the mess with baby wipes and hunted around for anything else that was stupid enough to move, but saw nothing.

My heart rate was nicely elevated at this point. I turned on the kitchen light and tiptoed into the kitchen, Clorox poised. I saw nothing skittering at my approach. I moved my food bag off the floor to the stove. As I turned back, my heart fluttered. An enormous cockroach lounged on the kitchen counter, paying no attention to me. When I say enormous, I mean its body was fully two inches long, not counting the antennae that it finally swiveled in my direction. 

"No, no, no, not happening," I said and shot it with Clorox. 

That got its attention. I am not proud to say, I continued to shoot that poor creature with bleach (gets out stains!) as it attempted to make itself scarce under various appliances on the counter. It was like trying to hide a dumptruck behind a bar of soap. Ater a year in the Bat Cave, my eyes are trained to spot minute movement in, under, and behind things. All it takes is one waving antenna to get my radar twitching. This guy was too big to hide. I soaked it in Clorox until it finally ran blindly off the counter and fell, flailing, onto the floor. I sprayed it until it was on its back, legs futilely scurrying in the air, and when it finally seemed dead, I entombed it under a small tupperware container. I peered at it through the hazy plastic and eventually deemed the fight over, battle won, chalk one up to me. Then I turned off my video camera. Yes, I got the whole sordid episode on video. At that point, I was thinking, I need evidence to show my friend, in case she didn't know already, that all was not right in the happy house.

Since then, the battle has raged, mostly in the bathroom. I pinpointed the infestation to the wall behind the vanity. On Monday, I got two kinds of nontoxic bug spray and proceeded to nuke the baseboards all around the bathroom. Nontoxic apparently doesn't mean without stench: essential oils will scrape your eyeballs out of your head if you don't have some ventilation, I discovered. Still, inhaling pungent lemongrass was worth it if I could get the bugs to stop bugging me.

The next day I acquired a can of Raid and went to town all along the bathroom baseboards. I did the kitchen for good measure, even though I hadn't seen any more action there since the godawful fight with the monster. As the body count mounted, I realized I could not leave the carcasses lying there as evidence. Evidence of what? If my friend wasn't aware the house was infested, then leaving a bunch of dead bugs for her to find would be mean and purposeless. I found a whisk broom and dustpan and did what had to be done.

It's been a week now since I first discovered I am not alone in this house. The stench of lemongrass lingers. I sleep with the bedroom light on. When I venture out to use the bathroom at night, I arm myself with the Zevo bottle. I turn on the hall light and scan the floor. If I see an enemy, I chase it down and spray it until it dies. I leave the body as a warning to others. Then I turn on the kitchen light, just to be sure there are no meandering intruders. Finally, I turn on the bathroom light. Every night so far, I have seen one or two adults recreating on the floor by the vanity. With the bottle of Zevo, I am merciless. 

This morning I gingerly entered the bathroom and found a dead cockroach on the floor, one I did not kill. Unless I have been befriended by an anonymous vigilante superhero, I can now have hope that the Raid is doing its magic behind the vanity. I will not let my guard down, though, because I know what I've seen is probably just the tip of the cockroach iceberg. A few nocturnal wanderers means there are lots of babies and grandpas lounging around in the nest. The babies will grow up to be jihadists.

If God is a cockroach, I'm going to hell for sure. I don't get pleasure out of killing God's creatures. If I have to live with pests, I'd prefer spiders, small ones, please, and preferably not venomous. I don't like spiders either, but they do good, and they don't have an attitude. You know what I mean? If you have been around cockroaches, you understand. Cockroaches are arrogant. They know they own the world and will inherit the earth when humans self-annihilate, which will probably happen in my lifetime. Cockroaches can afford to be cocky. 

I might think I have won the battle to save the happy house (delusion), but I know I will lose the war. Yes, before I leave I will check my bags carefully for stowaways. I prefer to travel alone.

The chronic malcontent lacks the energy to dramatize

I left Flagstaff on Thursday. Now I'm plant-sitting for a week for a friend who lives in a small house in a housing development in the City of Marana, about 30 minutes north of Tucson. Outside of this housing development is raw, rough, scrubby desert, where riffraff like me would belong. I know this because I got lost finding my way here. 

The contrast between have and havenots is stark when I contrast the two neighborhoods. Inside the housing development, residents walk their dogs along manicured sidewalks past tidy gravel lawns. The houses are crammed wall to wall with the barest minimum between them, so I can hear the neighbor's AC unit roaring outside my bedroom window, and they no doubt can hear ours. In contrast, outside this enclave the roads are gravel, the dirt lawns are decorated with dented cars and RVs, and the houses are mostly mobile homes that look like they fetched up on the land in the great flood and have been sheltering generations ever since.

However, no matter where you live in the desert, the odds of living with pests and critters are 100%. Case in point, I'm sharing the kitchen with some American cockroaches. Judging by their condition, the extermination chemicals are still working, but it might be time for another application. I don't care. I had hoped never to have to share living space with cockroaches again, but I'm a transient. I'll be on my way in a week. Meanwhile, I'm keeping my food bag up off the floor. 

After driving over hill and dale last week, I was relieved to finally find free camping in the national forest just north of Flagstaff. It was a dusty campsite, but I relished the shade among the Ponderosas, happy as an impostor camper can be to have cell signal, which means I had internet and could watch my late night talk shows. Yes, I'm an impostor camper. After four days of isolation, I find I get hungry for civilization. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to socialize. But I find it reasuring somehow to rub shoulders with the hoi poloi in some small-town Walmart Supercenter. It feels like affirmation that I'm still part of the human species. Not that I'm proud of that fact (any species that invented big box stores should be exterminated), but now I get it: You can take the girl out of the city, but the city is still in the girl, no matter where she roams. 

Speaking of roaming, I'm pretending to enjoy my freedom, just like I pretend to be a camper. Just like I pretended to enjoy golfing when I had a boyfriend who golfed. Like I pretended to like jazz when I had a boyfriend who played jazz. The truth is, I'm just an unhoused person who is seeking accommodation on my own terms. My terms are not unreasonable: I want a city that is not too hot, not too cold, not too big, not too small, and I want a space with no roommates. It has to be affordable. And preferably have no cockroaches. I'm not sure cockroaches are a dealbreaker, to be honest. In addition, as long as I'm making my wish list, I'd like a place that isn't prone to tornadoes or tsunamis. Or wildfires or earthquakes. Hm. That pretty much excludes every place except Corvallis, Oregon.  

I don't want to live in my car, but I'm glad I have this car so I can live in it while I drive around and try to find a home. Considering the lack of affordable housing in this country right now, I could be driving for a while. I'm predicting I will find something before I turn seventy. 

I was supposed to arrive at my friend's house on Friday evening. We were going to have dinner. I drove four hours, descending from the cool northern climes into the hell of Tucson heat. 

She sent a text: Too busy with work, can we meet Saturday morning instead? 

I texted back:  Sure, no problem (heart emoji). 

We agreed I would come over at 7:00 a.m. That left me to find shelter from the heat for rest of the day and night. I activated my survival plan: I took my laptop to the mall to sit in the frigid AC until the sun went down. (The sun, once my beloved friend, is now my arch enemy.) After sunset, I went to the gym for a little while, pretended to work out, and then drove to the Home Depot up the street. I chose a parking spot away from the store, near some bushes, where I've parked before, and proceeded to put up my window covers. Immediately my car interior became stifling. I busted out my little fan. It's an amazing gizmo: You put water in the top and it pretends to blow cool air on you. Don't underestimate the power of the placebo, people. 

Early the next morning, I was trying to follow the GPS Lady's instructions to get to my friend's house. She got me there, even though I didn't believe her, and thus caused myself to get lost. I'm used to it. Getting lost is how I roll. Anyway, I finally parked outside my friend's house. 

As I was about to text her, she texted me: Can you come at 10:00 instead? (head exploding emoji)

I texted back:  Of course, no problem (heart emoji). 

She texted: Maybe you can get some more sleep (heart, sleep emoji)

The strangeness of my living situation swept over me. I tried to picture it. Go back to the Home Depot parking lot and try to sleep with cars, trucks, and pallet moving equipment coming and going around me? Pee in a jar, hunkered below window level, in broad daylight? Not impossible, but not wise for a stealth camping impostor. 

What do you think I did? Yep. I went to Walmart. After that soothing injection of humanity, I got gas, dumped trash, and refilled my water jugs. I ate breakfast in my car, parked in some parking lot, can't recall now. Walmart adjacent, I think. 

I try not to think too much. It's easy to overdramatize my situation. Lots of people have it much worse than me. I'm lucky to have good friends. And internet. Don't ask me to choose between friends and internet. I know I'm an internet addict, which means I might be an impostor friend. 

It happened again

Once again, you had to remind me! I can't believe I forgot to blog last Sunday. I looked at my calendar to see what happened. Every line was full, and every line was checked off done, except I had forgotten to put "Blog" on the calendar. 

Now we know. My life is ruled by my calendar. At this rate, soon I will be putting "eat" and "sleep" on there, too. That will be a sad day. I probably won't be blogging when I reach that point. You can visit me in the retirement home, if you can still walk.

Speaking of last legs, many thanks to my blog reader who checked in to see if I'm still alive. It was 106°F today. I don't know if I would call this living. Summers in Tucson resemble being in a prison. Not that I would know from firsthand experience, just that being confined to the Bat Cave for most of the day doesn't exactly feel like freedom. Still, roof over head, not complaining. Much.

Another thing to be grateful for: no little dudes! I believe the property management company actually took some action. I didn't see said action, but they sent round a notice saying they were doing inspections for pest control. That makes me think maybe they did something. I haven't seen a little dude in over two weeks. I still tiptoe into my kitchen though, and I'm still spraying insecticide every Sunday like I found religion. I'm sure the little dudes aren't far away. 

It's been so hot, I had to finally turn on the air conditioner. It works, that's nice. Fans don't really suffice when it's over 100 in the Bat Cave. When I turned on the AC, a huge black beetle flew out. It was probably lounging comfortably in the dark dusty crevice, then whoosh! I can imagine it thinking what the heck? It came fluttering out and went behind a box. 

I screamed a little, remembering my previous encounter with a flying monster. I grabbed the ammo bottle and spritzed it to get it to come out of hiding. It landed in drunken fashion on the window sill. I saw it had some iridescent markings on its tummy. Suddenly feeling magnanimous, I captured it and let it go outside. Sorry, big black dude, for scaring you. I was willing to save you, because there was only one of you, and you had art on your belly. I don't extend the same courtesy to the little brown dudes that live in the walls. 

Happy birthday to CS and to Bravadita. Also to my older brother and to my mother, who would have turned 93 later this month. 

I self-published my third novel this week. Yay, me, getting it done in the desert. 

Another bug in the life of one day

After a recent Windows update, my computer started giving me the weather report in the notification area of the task bar, whether I want it or not. This week the reports are somewhat unsettling. UV alert! Fire danger! Very hot! in scary red letters. 

Yes. It is very hot here in Tucson. It is summer in the desert, after all. But not as hot as predicted. Yesterday, instead of 110°F, it was only 109°F. Today, instead of 110°F, it was only 108°F. I say, quit whining. I think putting the forecast in a scary red font is click bait. A few seconds later, the alert says mostly sunny, as if to say, ha, ha, got you, sucker. It doesn't matter. I can't parse what I'm seeing. I have the air conditioner cranked up to bring the interior air down to 80°F. The sound of a jet engine screaming in the Bat Cave makes my eyes wobble in their sockets.

Speaking of wobbling, a few nights ago I was getting out of the shower when movement along the floor caught my eye. Even with glasses, my vision isn't great. Without them, I'm half blind. But I can see movement, and movement on the floor can only mean one thing. 

The ammo I normally use to defend my turf was in the kitchen, so I grabbed the closest thing to hand, which was a spray bottle of Clorox. I grabbed my glasses and jammed them on my nose as I sprayed in the general direction of the thing. Now that I could see it, I wished I hadn't. It was the biggest cockroach I have seen in my time here in the Bat Cave. It was built like a fat little tank, more than an inch long, glossy brown, like sort of a warm brick color, and fast as hell.

I sprayed the bleach in its direction and then fell back gasping as the thing spread its wings and took to the air. It flew into the closet and landed on my dad's white plastic chair (the one I tied to the roof of my car when I moved here, don't ask me why, all I can say is, it has Dad's handwriting on the back of the chair). The thing landed and sat there looking at me. If you had been here, you would have seen me stark naked, dancing around with a spray bottle of bleach, screaming, "They can fly? WTF, they can fly?"

Yes, Virginia, they can fly. The adults, anyway. So now I know that the ones I had been claiming were ooh, these big scary adults were barely past their teens. This guy was a grown-up. Lucky for me, they don't fly fast or far. I was able to spray it down onto the ground. It ran like hell under a plastic chest of drawers. I sprayed under the chest, hoping eventually I would find its dead body. Then I dashed for the big guns.

I brought two spray bottles back to the closet with me: the insecticide and the alcohol. Long-range, short-range. Or maybe I should say long-term and short-term. I took the insecticide and sprayed full blast under the chest of drawers. Out came the big dude, moving fast. I scuttled backward as it scuttled forward. We passed each other. I stood in the bathroom doorway, and it headed full speed for the kitchen. I guess we retreat to the places we feel safe.

I lit out in hot pursuit, spray bottle in each hand. I shot it with insecticide as it ran before me, and as far as I could tell, it wasn't a bit fazed. I switched to the alcohol. The critter ran behind a thing, looking for a crevice in the cabinet. There wasn't one, so I let loose a torrent of alcohol, blam blam blam, and eventually it was so soggy, it rolled over on its sodden wings and surrendered.

I was taking no prisoners. I shot it a few more times, just for kicks, and then I finished getting ready for bed. Of course I couldn't sleep for a while. I had to walk around with a flashlight like I was hunting possums in the dark. I didn't see any more dudes, big or small. I am really hoping that was the grandpa or grandma, the last of the line. We can hope.

Meanwhile, more excitement at the Bat Cave. A night later, I was typing and heard a boom. I thought, oh, no, did someone just hit my car? I peered out the window and saw the dumpster was on fire. I opened my door and stuck my head out into the oven-like air. Yep, my eyes did not deceive me. Flames were roaring out the top of the metal dumpster. The dumpster boomed again. I heard sirens. I saw some neighbors come out and take video. I did the same, although I don't know why. I didn't talk to anyone and nobody acknowledged me. The fire truck pulled up. The guy who drives an air conditioning repair truck came home at the same time. He inched past the fire truck, determined to make it to his usual parking spot. He probably just wanted to get into his nice cool apartment and pop open a cold one. He was probably like, so what, a dumpster fire. People wandered around in the hot evening, walking their yappy dogs and watching the firefighters spray stuff on the flames in 100°F heat. It was all over in five minutes. 

I don't hear or see much from my window at the back of the apartment complex. Last night on the news I was startled to see a photo of the sign outside my apartment building. Apparently early in the morning, there was a double homicide in one of the apartments on the street side. The police came, set up a little white tent, and conducted their investigation. I saw photos. I didn't hear a thing. This morning I went out to check my mailbox for the first time this week (empty) and there was no sign two people had died.

This morning the manager sent a text saying the water would be shut off for some emergency repairs. I filled a bucket of water and put it by the toilet, just in case, but for some reason, the water in my building kept flowing.

Life goes on.

Searching for stability

I have been ruled by weather and climate all my life. Even as a kid in Portland, I clung to summer. I dreaded fall because it led to winter. I despised clouds. I wrote poems with gushing titles like Ode to Spring. I hated being cold. I used to stare in confusion at people who said they enjoyed Portland's cloudy moist days, people who actually reveled in rain, people who went up to Mt. Hood to—gah!—play in the snow. Even after chasing the sun to Tucson, I get cranky on cloudy days. Most of my adult life, unless the temperature tops 90°F, wherever I have gone, I have worn a hat on my head and socks on my hands. People are sometimes shocked to see I actually have hair. 

Weather is ruling me here in Tucson, just as it did in Portland, and I suspect it is influencing my vertigo. One day when my frustration with the rattling in my ear turned into action, I searched Dr. Google for information and found some articles that linked vertigo to migraines and barometric pressure. One helpful Netizen offered a ton of great information about migraines and air pressure. The place in the U.S. with the most stable air pressure, this amateur scientist said, was San Diego.

I continue to search for home. Is San Diego or environs the place for me? I don't think San Diego is within my budget, but who knows. I could live on the beach in the Beast. People are doing it. 

To help me make my decision, I wanted to find out if what I read was true, that San Diego barometric pressure is most stable, and further, I wanted to know if San Diego barometric pressure was different from Tucson barometric pressure. To answer my questions, I downloaded three days of air pressure data from the NOAA website. I used the altimeter data because it has been adjusted to account for elevation. Tucson is at 2,389 feet, compared to San Diego, which sits at just 62 feet above sea level. Air pressure changes with elevation, and that is what the altimeter readings account for.

I used the same three days for four locations: Portland, San Diego, Tucson, and Yuma. Weather on the west coast tends to move from west to east, so weather happening along the coastline might take a day or more to reach Tucson, but the days I chose didn't seem to be particularly dramatic in terms of storms or high pressure, so to keep it simple, I just used those data. 

I calculated the minimums and maximums for each city and subtracted to get the range, which is one measure of variation. The range (difference between maximum and minimum) for Tucson and Yuma were similar at 0.26 and 0.28, respectively. Portland was higher at 0.37. San Diego came in the lowest at 0.10, indicating that city showed the least amount of fluctuation in barometric pressure over that three-day period.

THREE DAYS	YUMA	TUCSON	SAN DIEGO	PORTLAND
MAX	30.06	30.11	30.09	30.22
MIN	29.80	29.83	29.99	29.85
DIFF	0.26	0.28	0.10	0.37

The data seem to support the idea that San Diego has stable air pressure. San Diego had less than half the variation in air pressure that Tucson and Yuma showed for this three-day period. Tucson had just barely more variation compared to Yuma. 

Portland had a lot more variation, but the waves were very slow, not choppy. You might like a chart.



What does this tell me? It might be true. In terms of my vertigo, San Diego might be better than Tucson. 

Next, I am considering the possible effects of my diet on my vertigo. I personally am not convinced that my vertigo relates to migraine headaches, but the spunky little ENT I visited earlier this month seemed to think I don't have garden-variety BPPV, that maybe it has something to do with a type of migraine. I think she's wrong, but what do I know, I'm just the ignorant person living inside this out-of-balance body.

In my experience, six things affect vertigo:  movement, gravity, sound, temperature, air pressure changes, and stress. I've lived with this condition since 2015. You can go back in this blog and read about it. I've complained a lot over the years. It's what I do.

Anyway, diet. My nemesis. I blame food for everything, even as I whine to the gods about how unfair it is that I can't eat like so-called normal people. If I could subsist on pancakes and ice cream without blowing up like a balloon, you better believe I would. Just looking at pancakes is good for a two-pound weight gain. My problem is I don't know how to stop once I start. I'm such an addict. But what if some of the foods I'm eating—and there are only, like, a dozen of them—are contributing to my vertigo? That would be sad, if I'd had the solution all along. Just click your heels three times, nibble on this root vegetable, and all your balance problems will be gone. Right.

According to the info sheet the ENT gave me, to head off migraines, I should avoid, reduce, or limit these foods: chocolate, nuts, peanut butter, coffee and caffeinated tea, many cheeses, eggs, yogurt, fresh bread, green beans, lentils, onions, raisins, and avocado. 

I don't eat all of those things regularly, but many are staples in my diet. Eggs, for instance. Yogurt. I don't eat meat, so eggs and yogurt are my protein sources. I am not sure what I would eat instead. I tried the soy/tofu diet, back in, like, 2010, during my vegan meltdown. Been there, done that, almost killed me. 

Guess what foods are supposedly "safe": American cheese, ice cream, pudding, milk, white bread, potatoes, rice, oatmeal, fresh meat/fish/poultry, many root vegetables, and apples. Basically white things, dead things, and sugar. Bright side: Pancakes would be on this list, as long as they have no yeast in them. 

I am left with so many questions. Why is milk okay but not yogurt? Is it the probiotics? Why is American cheese okay but not Swiss? What do we have against the Swiss? I'm so confused. 

Nothing makes sense. I keep trying to order the thoughts in my head. It's like herding lizards. I shake my snow globe head almost constantly, trying to keep the ear rocks suspended. I'm sure these stupid ocotonia have wandered far and wide since they started their journey in 2015. Now they are exploring all the ear canals, far from home, going on their endless river cruise. I wish the spunky ENT could shoot some dye into my ears, put me under a scope, and see where the crystals are actually gathering. I bet my ear canals would light up like a playroom full of kindergarteners. 

Speaking of little dudes, good news. After repeated sprayings of insecticide around the Bat Cave, I believe I have secured the perimeter. For the past few days, I've seen only tiny stupid babies, easily dispatched with no compassion. I am sure my cockroach dreams will eventually subside. 

I wonder if the bug spray has an effect on my vertigo. Hmm. More to be revealed.

The Hellish Handbasket goes into the hospitality business

The property management company is upping its revenue gathering efforts. The tenants were forewarned. Yesterday, it was my turn. At ten in the morning, as I was cooking my breakfast, two large scruffy men entered the Bat Cave with the intention of installing water meters on the copper pipes going to the upstairs and downstairs apartments. Instead of adding a flat fee to the rent to account for water usage, now through the magic of Wi-fi, we will be accurately charged for our long showers. Yay, accuracy. 

I moved my electric skillet to a safer location while the guy cut a hole in my wall over the sink. My breakfast cooked and sat on the counter, growing bacteria. Eventually during a lull, I put it in the fridge. My kitchen was a disaster zone, insulation, dust, and roaches everywhere. When the guys left two and a half hours later, I had three plastic-covered square holes in my kitchen wall and some mental images I'd really rather forget. 

One of the holes was under the sink. The space under the sink is a deep, dark, roach day-and-night spa, moody with its gray paint and gentle humidity. I don't keep trash under there but I'm sure decades of tenants did, leaving behind a delicious fetid aroma perfect for roach relaxation. Now there is a 12-inch square of white plastic covering a hole that I'm pretty sure leads to hell, with off-ramps to every roach nest along the way. 

The fun started when a grizzled dusty man named David sawed an 8-inch square hole in the dry wall and started yanking out insulation, also known as bed-and-breakfast for the nest of cockroaches I knew were living behind the electrical outlet. I warned him. I will spare you the details. I am still queasy. 

While he waited for one of his compadres to bring him a tool, David pulled out his phone and showed me the view from his property, somewhere out a road I'd heard of but had no idea where it was, up a hill with a fantastic view of mountains and desert. He had a live camera going all the time, and he checked it periodically as he was working. The sound of wind ruffling across a web microphone kept coming out of his shirt pocket. It was like a baby monitor for his property.

"That's where my house used to be," he said, pointing at a flat bare area of dirt. "Burned down last year."

Terrified roaches fled along the counter, making a break for freedom. I shot them with alcohol. 

"There was a tornado out there. Left a wire shorted out under the roof. Six months later, the whole place burned to the ground."

David went outside to get something and have a cigarette. A beefy guy in a neon vest came in and took over, cutting a second hole on the other side of the electrical outlet. 

"Whoa, I found the nest," he said, dancing back and bumping into the Barbie stove, which was sitting in the middle of my 4-foot square kitchen. "I hate roaches," he grinned at me. He was missing one of his front teeth. 

Soon there were cockroaches all over the counter, running for their lives. I gave the insect spray to the worker, and he nuked the vicinity. I shot alcohol at the ones who got past his first line of attack. 

His brother Hector came in and out to fetch and carry things to the apartment next door. I sat in my TV watching chair, watching the guys work. At one point, they moved outside to show their boss something on their phones and to complain about the fourth worker, Jesse, who went AWOL during the afternoon and was not seen again. I looked at the hole in my kitchen wall and realized I was looking through a corresponding hole in my neighbor's wall, straight into their kitchen. I saw the back of a stove, part of a counter, and further away, the edge of a sofa. Their walls are the same color off-white as mine, and just as bare. 

The workers did not bother to put back the pieces of drywall they cut out. Instead, they covered the holes with pieces of shiny white plastic. One is about eight inches square, the other is a foot square. The squares are shiny white. The walls are glossy off white. One of the squares is screwed into the wall at the four corners with black drywall screws. Do you know what it is like to see something black on the wall out of the corner of your eye? Not good. I feel inordinately jumpy whenever I am in my kitchen.

As soon as the workers were gone, I took wide masking tape and taped up all the edges on the two pieces of plastic by the electrical outlet. The electrical outlet was already well taped around the edges; until I put that tape on there, that was the preferred entrance to the roach bed-and-breakfast that was behind the wall. I know that nest is still there. Some got nuked, but eggs are hatching, and orphan babies are coming. I taped the plastic covers to block easy access to my living space. They will have to come in through the hole under the sink. The gateway to and from hell. I'm dusting off my handbasket. 

Creating a new reality

Darkness falls fast in the desert after the sun sets. Twilight doesn't linger. During the day, I imagine the little dudes snoring in their cozy nests under my kitchen countertop. I wash my dishes with an eye open but I feel pretty certain the kitchen is mine. Until dark.

In the evening (I imagine), the little eyes flutter open, the tiny mouths yawn, the little wings buzz, the skinny legs flex and stretch. I imagine the little dudes are eyeing the exits, which are entrances onto the vast stage of my kitchen counter. They probably poke each other: Who is willing to stick out an antenna? You go first. No, you go.

I have laid down some serious napalm in the form of insecticide spray. I have mined the place with sneaky bait traps. My last line of defense is diatomaceous earth spread around nooks and crannies, around the baseboards, and around the bed like a barricade of garlic. 

I don't think the little dudes drink blood, but I think of them as tiny vampires. They are fast and almost invisible if they pose in place. As soon as an audacious dude makes a move, my anxious eye spies it, my hand reaches for the spray bottle of rubbing alcohol, and in sixty seconds, the little dude is on its back, antennae wilted, tiny legs pistoning in the air. 

I don't like killing things. I'm sure I'm going to hell. But my consolation is the little dudes will all get there before me, if I have anything to do with it. I keep my spray bottle near to hand the way some angry people tote their AR-47s. Anything that moves in my kitchen is fair game. I don't care what you are.

This apartment building was built in the mid-1970s, and I think the countertops are original to the 1960s. The architects got a good deal on this stuff, I'm guessing, most likely because it fails to fulfill all the performance obligations of a mediocre kitchen countertop. First, the white background is speckled with dark irregularly shaped and placed spots of various sizes, scattered tightly like a reverse field of stars. Some speckles might even be a little glittery, but most are some shade of dark gray, if you don't count the handful of light brown cigarette burns left by former tenants. What this means in terms of the battle raging for kitchen supremacy is that it looks like the countertops are teeming with bugs. (The speckled counters surround the bathroom sink too but I haven't seen any little dudes there yet. Not much to eat there, unless they get a hankering for Colgate.) 

Second, the speckles aren't flat, they are just slightly raised, almost embossed into the surface, which I'm guessing is some sort of particle board, judging by how it is crumbling underneath the edges around the sink. Particle board and moisture are natural enemies, and moisture always wins. This slightly raised surface means I can never be sure the counters are clean, not without nuking them with bleach, which is really bad for the air quality in the Bat Cave. (Did I mention the Bat Cave has only one window?)

If I were to try to see the battle from the bugs point of view, I would say, wow, how lucky are we to live so close to a smorgasbord of aromas and flavors! Talk about the promised land. The embossed nature of the surface gives us good purchase for skittering. The plethora of crumbs and tidbits and drips left behind by a human with bad eyesight means some fine midnight brunches for us. And if the sneaky human flicks on the light and catches us manging around the stove, well, we can either run for our lives or freeze behind something and hope we don't get caught. How fun is that! It's a little dangerous at times—we lost Uncle Manny last week, and Junior Number Twelve hasn't been seen in a while. But what a life of luxury!

From my human point of view, I am constantly creeped out after dark. I didn't see any action for a few nights and naively thought I might have won the kitchen wars, but then last night I saw two full-sized dudes lurking around the so-called clean dishes, and I realize I'm fooling myself. You can't win this kind of war, not even if you raze the place to the ground. It's like I'm living on stage in an auditorium. During the day, the audience is snoozing, head to toe, spooning in their nests among their multitudes of eggs. As soon as darkness falls, every seat in the auditorium is filled. They are watching me with unblinking eyes, waiting for me to shut off the light. Soon they come creeping out of their hidey-holes to dance on the stage.

My eyes see the speckles on the kitchen counter, bug out, and kick my brain into fight or flight mode. I peer under things and between things, pointing a flashlight, pounding the counter. If I see something move, I launch a frenzied attack. I spray the bug and watch it kick until it expires, feeling just slightly sad and guilty. If it falls into a pile of diatomaceous earth, I let it lie there, covered in white dust, desiccating, a constant reminder to its brethren: This is what could happen to you. Each dead bug is my equivalent of a head on a pike. I don't think it is working as a deterrent, though, and it's really more like I don't want to clean up a bunch of little white-dusted corpses. It's just gross.

I'm starting the downsizing process again. I'm putting essentials in big see-through plastic bins. I know, plastic! Argh. Cardboard boxes are getting filled up with clutter and taken to the thrift store. Cardboard and clutter, both good hiding places for bugs, are now verboten. I'm getting as much up off the floor as I can. I moved the bed six inches from the wall and surrounded it with a dusting of diatomaceous earth. I sleep like a princess on an island. 

While I'm washing dishes and listening to my refrigerator breathing like Darth Vader twenty hours a day, I'm reflecting on my current housing situation. I'm trying to make home not be a geographical place but more like a state of mind. I don't have experience with this. My sister the world traveler does, I think. She learned early how to pack light and settle loosely. Me, wherever I go, I'm always lugging a sewing machine, a power drill, a bunch of art supplies, and ton of other stuff . . . and that's after downsizing and moving to Tucson. I can pare down some more, but at some point, I will reach the dreaded moment where I must let go of all my security blankets and pack what is left into my car. I have until the end of next August to find my new state of mind.