The Joke's on Me

I blame Archie McPhee for my recent heart troubles. 

Usually, this Seattle purveyor of pranks and prattle is a favorite of mine, an adult version of the Johnson-Smith Co. catalog I poured over as a kid.  Without Archie, I never would have found lunch bags embossed with moustaches, bacon breath mints or shushing-librarian action figurine dolls.   Heck, they even throw in a handful of freebies when you spend a few clams at their store.

But, this time, Archie's gone too far, and I'm bearing the brunt of its overreaching. Fulfilling a recent order of ours, some yahoo in the mail room thought it'd be funny to include a  plastic cockroach in the box.

I hate roaches.  I mean really, really hate them.

It's not that I have a thing against fauna.  A quick tour of our house, in fact, will prove just the opposite.  We Holts are crazy for critters.  Where most people hang art, we hang beautifully preserved examples of cicadas and butterflies, Atlas moths and beetles.  You'll also find happy piles of bones and rocks, fossils and seashells throughout our house.

Since they were old enough to squash bugs, Eric and Allison have been told to leave creatures alone, especially when we're the ones invading their space.  Sure, Allison has eaten a dozen or so roly poly bugs over the years, mostly to gauge our reaction, but both kids generally have obeyed our orders to love these tiny, kindred spirits and leave them alone.

Such orders do not extend to roaches, though.  That is because roaches are vile, evil creatures (did you ever notice how those two words are anagrams of each other? This is not a coincidence, I'm sure).  One of the few times I've cussed like a sailor with kids in the house was one night, a dozen years ago, when I located an American brown with my bare feet while shuffling to the bathroom for some overnight relief.  Awakened by my roach rage, Mark momentarily mistook me for a rapper finding new ways to offend people.

So, why the anti-Archie movement of late?  Because the other members of my family have taken to hiding the plastic cockroach wherever they are certain I will find it.  The other night, for instance, I actually thought Allison wanted to spend some quality pre-sleep time with me.  And so, I enthusiastically put down my book and headed upstairs.  When I plunked down on the mattress,  she and Mark held their breath, both knowing I'd eventually look up at the ceiling, where Allison had carefully taped that brown, little so-and-so.  Yes, I yelped, although I didn't cuss. 

I consider that real progress. 

My crusty little friend has joined me in my shoes, atop my toothbrush, in my lunch bag, tucked into a pocket of my favorite jeans.  Why, just this morning, I found him floating casually in my bathwater.

Ha. 
Ha.
Ha.

That's so funny I forgot to laugh.

When I wrap up this over-long blog entry, you better believe I'll be writing the pea brains at Archie McPhee and giving them a piece of my roach-addled mind.  Yeah, they'll be sorry they ever messed with Jane Raglin Holt, former queen of whoopie cushions and disappearing ink, now owner of a roach motel that I can't seem to leave.  

They'll wish they'd never met me.