June 4, 2007


Last time I wrote, I was griping about having bed bugs and the whole process I was going to have to go through in order to get rid of them. So, we (both Sonia and I) did what I described - emptied the apartment of basically everything that could be washed in a washing machine and lived at our respective parents' houses in CT for 3 weeks between exterminator treatments. I endured the Metro North commute back and forth every day and gave up any illusions of having a social life I might have entertained.

Needless to say, I was actually looking forward to moving back in and getting back to Brooklyn fun-ness this weekend. I spent all evening yesterday bringing my earthly possessions back to the apartment, and I used most of today to restore order to the place - relined all the shelves, refolded all my clothes into the bureau and hung the rest on their hangers, reassembled my bed, newly shrouded in mattress casings and all. By the end of the day today, I felt really good about getting back to normal, and I felt some satisfaction looking around at the place after I was done - almost like I'd never left.

I kicked back, had some dinner and watched a movie. Then came the moment of truth - would I be able to sleep well in my bed, even though I know the apt has been treated twice and there shouldn't be any bugs left? I told myself I was being silly and that it would just take time to readjust. It's mostly psychological, after all. So I went to turn down my bed and reached for a pillow...and found a fat, live bed bug staring back at me, sitting right there on top. I froze, my head spun, and I clung to a fleeting hope that it was just a dead one that got stirred up during my moving things around. And then it started scurrying away from me. Somehow through the tears that began epically spouting from my eyes like fountains, I was able to catch and kill it. I then dialed my mother and somehow communicated through my hysteria that they were back. 8 hours back at my apartment and I'd already seen a live bed bug. As I told her this I saw another one crawling up the door frame. Since I hung up with her I found a third on my hamper.

I'm thinking the exterminator didn't do a very good job.

So now it's getting on towards 2am, but I have no intention of sleeping in that bed. All of my clothes have come back out of their drawers and the closet, back into the industrial size ziplock bags. Mom called a car to pick me up here after work tomorrow and take me and all my cursed possessions back to Stamford again.

I guess I should be glad I discovered that they're still here so soon, rather than living in doubt for a while and then having my fears confirmed later...and I wasn't going to know anything for sure until I came back here and saw with my own eyes...I just wish it wasn't after I'd spent all day moving back in and getting settled. It would be almost poetic if it weren't so horrible. You can't make this stuff up.

Somehow, I don't think this falls into the category of something I'll be able to look back on and laugh.