Yeah, I know. Not the nicest hazing tradition. Last week, my roommate Tom found a bed bug on his mattress and then all hell ensued. Even though it was just one and even though my other roommate Pam and I didn't find anything in our room and none of us suffered bites, we decided the best defense was a good offense, i.e. preemptive war.
So I spent a lot of last week buying bed bug mattress and pillow protectors, standing in Walgreens debating over which bed bug spray sounded the most poisonous, scheduling an exterminator, and bagging everything I own in plastic bags.
John is my HERO because he literally held my hand through the whole thing. He didn't groan when I had a 1:00 am panic attack and insisted we go to the 24-hour Rite Aid for bed bug interceptors for the feet of my bed. He stayed an extra day to help me (read: do it for me) put the mattress protector on and wash, dry, and bag every single item of clothing that I own. He dealt with me screaming every five minutes and making him check the cracks in the floors for signs of larvae. He even chuckled when I accosted a salesperson at Bed, Bath & Beyond and asked him if he ever knew anyone with bed bugs. He is the best.
And bed bugs are the worst. However, I'm actually convinced at this point that we never even really had them, because the extinguisher said there were no signs of bed bugs anywhere in the apartment when he came to spray. But it's hard to remember that with the combination of the fumes from the chemicals and the frazzle of living out of plastic storage bags for the next month.
Pity me. And don't get mad if you call/email me to talk about your manuscript and I respond with a litany of questions about the lifespan of a bed bug. Or if I refuse to let you borrow a sweater. It's for your own good.