In the past month, the fact became unavoidable: I have roaches. I thought I only had the big, fat black waterbug kind, but this morning I checked the roach motels (Guess what? They really do check in, and they really don’t check out) and I discovered two of the small brown German kind.
For a moment, I felt bad. What if this had been a committed roach relationship? After all, a Saturday night date implied it. “Listen, baby, I reserved a room for a little getaway – HBO, all the crumbs you can eat, running water…”
But then I thought about all the baby roaches they’d inevitably produce, and it didn’t bother me anymore.
Which reminds me: My astrologer friend April had a little come-to-Jesus talk with me recently about cockroaches, and my habit of falling in love with them – metaphorically, not the real kind. Specifically, she was talking about my heavy lineup of planets in Scorpio and said that for all practical purposes, that’s how I relate to people – that I will always be attracted to that deep, twisted Plutonian murkiness, and that my gift is the ability to love that in people.
However, it hasn’t worked out too well for me, which she pointed out.
“We live in a world that contains both kittens and cockroaches,” she said. “And while anyone can love a kitten, it takes a Scorpio to love a cockroach.” She suggested that perhaps I could transfer that deep understanding of and empathy for our darker natures to something more productive, like being a private detective (done that), investigative reporter (done that) or maybe working with the lepers. (See: Ex-boyfriend.)
Thank God for Resolution No. 2. Hopefully, by the next one, I’ll be ready for a pussycat.
