MARRIAGE AND THE COCKROACH CAPER, PART 1

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MARRIAGE AND THE COCKROACH CAPER, PART 1

I went into my office this morning to write this post, having been traumatized last night by a cockroach WHILE I WAS HAVING A DINNER PARTY. Coffee cup in hand, I sat down in my plush office chair then pulled open the keyboard drawer of my beautiful cherrywood desk. A cockroach AS LONG AS MY INDEX FINGER (surely!?) dashed across the keyboard TOWARD ME like he was a runner leaving the starter's block, and I screamed bloody murder, jumped up from my chair, and yelled for Milton.

Milton no came.

The cockroach hiked its wings (hefted? extended? whatever) and FLEW TOWARD ME.

How do you type a scream?

I SCREAMED.

The cockroach zoomed at me, then like a turbo engine kicked in, it (I won't dignify it with a "he") flew directly upward and landed on the top ledge of my bookshelf over my computer, crawling, crawling, crawling, antennae extended and moving disgustedly.

I'm outa' there.

"M – I – L – T – O – N!"

Still, he no came.

I ran into the family room where he was sitting at the breakfast table calmly reading the newspaper and sipping his coffee. My heart was pounding like it would jump out of my chest. I mean, three cockroaches in three days.

No can handle.

"Milton," I (what verb do I use?; wailed?; cried?; I mean, I was truly traumatized) pleaded, "come help me. A cockroach just crawled out of my keyboard drawer." I'm hopping from one foot to the other, recalling the memory of that long brown shiny instrument of the devil crawling over MY keyboard. How dare he (I mean, it)? "Get the Raid. Get some paper towels."

"He's probably gone by now."

"Well, I don't care. I'm shooting Raid—"

"You can't put that stuff on the keyboard."

"I KNOW that. I'll spray it under my desk, and maybe the smell of it'll drive him out, and then we can get him (forget the 'it')."

"Calm down. It's just a bug."

I turned to him and said not too sweetly, "YOU are minimizing what's concerning me." I thought about the principle we teach in our Joy in Marriage seminars, how you are supposed to have empathy for your spouse's concerns and feelings and disappointments and fears, no matter what they are, how you shouldn't brush them off. We always give the example of a wife coming to her husband in tears because everybody in the office got an invitation to a coworker's luncheon except her, and we teach how the husband should empathize with his wife and express his love and care during this vulnerable time. Then we give the example of a man signed up for a tennis tournament for months, and on the morning of the event, his partner calls and says he's not going to play. In that case, the wife should empathize with her husband and express her understanding of his disappointment.

So I fully expected Milton to at least show a little emotion, even if he couldn't muster up any empathy.

Of course I'M the one who teaches that segment.

Maybe that's why he didn't show any empathy (just kidding). Instead, he sort of fussed at me for showing emotion about the stupid cockroach.

Sort of like he did last night…

I was having a dinner party for six in our home. The whole works. Slice-your-own-cheese and crackers and a luscious punch for appetizers. Then, parmesan chicken over rice pleasingly arranged on a large glass platter. Pretty salad with fresh mozzarella. Warm Italian bread dipped in an oil-and-herbs-mixture like they serve at Carrabba's. Sweet peach iced tea. For dessert, cherry jazz ala mode and flavored coffee.

Placemats.

Cloth napkins.

Beethoven and Mozart coming through the ceiling speakers.

So there I was, standing at the peninsula overlooking the family room as I sliced fresh lime and conversed with our guests. It was then that I saw "it"…shudder, shudder…

Disclaimer: (or is that disclosure?) Disclaimer: denial, repudiation. Disclosure: exposure, revelation. Maybe it's both, I'm meaning. It's this: we don't have cockroaches even though we live in Florida. We are clean people. We are nice people. I have never seen a cockroach in this house. I haven't seen a cockroach—a live, rushing-at-you-cockroach in, oh, years. Also, let the record stand that I don't normally scream and carry on. I'm a calm, even-keeled person, dignified even, at times. Interpretation: I'm not given to screaming fits. Or any kind of fits. I even have a FAKE cockroach, belly-up, in my pantry—to give an unsuspecting guest a little jolt so we can get a laugh out of it.

On with my story…