I hate a damn bug...

Last night while watching TV in my bedroom and thinking about getting my hair cut and dyeing it dark brown like Tina Fey's, I saw a giant Palmetto bug (ew, ew, ew) on the top of one of my drapes. I thought I was hallucinating at first because I never see the little bastards anywhere but the floor. That's why I pay an exterminator to treat both inside and outside of my house, so they'll die by the time they get inside. I jumped up to get my economy-sized can of Raid (Country Fresh scent) from the kitchen and the f*cker flew across the room. I screamed, came running back in with the Raid in hand, and sprayed the bug, which was on the baseboard near my dresser. Doused in chemicals, it died. I went to get 18 paper towels and a piece of junk mail (because I can't bear to touch them, I pick them up by sliding paper underneath and dumping them into the toilet, flush - twice to make sure they don't swim back up - then wipe up Raid residue with the 18 paper towels). Except when I returned, it CAME BACK ALIVE. At least, I thought it did because there was another giant Palmetto bug on the wall.

At this point I was hyperventilating, missing the end of 30 Rock, and panicking because I've never had two bugs at once, much less two that flew. I sprayed the hell out of bug #2 (my drapes now smell like country-fresh poison), but it was apparently a Mighty Superbug because it jumped from the drapes to the open windowsill. I thought about setting it on fire, but it flipped over and died. I sprayed it again just to be make sure.

It took me almost an hour to calm down (after checking under the bed, in the closet, shaking out the duvet, and scanning the ceiling for more creatures). I had finally convinced myself that it was a two-bug fluke (though I had Raid-in-hand just in case) and tried to focus on watching the Project Runway finale (I was rooting for Laura) while chewing on a Xanax.

I heard bug #3 before I saw it: a loud whirring noise from the corner of the room close to where bug #1 was first spotted. I flipped out, threw the magazine in my lap across the room, and vaulted over the bed with the can of Raid locked and loaded. Bug #3 died before I had a chance to squeak out a scream.

Three bugs, same room - I call that an infestation. I searched the room again - no bugs - flushed the toilet about a dozen times to make sure the three stayed in hell where they belong, and decided that I'd better search the rest of the house for more mutant flying devil creatures just in case they were pouring in from a gaping Amityville Horror sinkhole-to-fiery-hell in my floor.

It's hard not to feel like two scoops of crazy when you're running around the house in your underwear, cursing, turning lights on and off, kicking furniture, squealing at the dark spots on the hardwood floor, and scanning every single inch of the ceiling, all while holding a can of Raid in front of you with your finger on the trigger.

I found no more bugs, but stayed up way past midnight because I didn't want to turn the light off. And I slept with the can of Raid like it was a teddy bear. If the can was bigger, I would have SPOONED the can of Raid.

Where was Miss Kitty? She's not an actual cat with cat-instincts and cat-bug-stalking abilities; she's more like a stuffed animal cat that eats and breathes. She was sleeping on the bathroom windowsill and didn't even wake up for the bug flushing ceremonies.