The Life and Times of the Curious Cockroach

Written on September 7th, 2008
Location: Brussels!!!!!
Reasons for being in Brussels: 1) university exchange, 2) being an angsty eighteen-year-old, 3)  a burning desire to answer the  following question: can the Curious Cockroach survive in another environment?

I sit here in my cozy, dimly-lit room in Brussels, to the sound of running water. I like to pretend it’s an indoor water fountain, built here especially for my own relaxation. On my second day in Brussels, I discovered the shower, and also the fact that it is right above my room. The dainty white pipe runs along the wall in the corner of my room. It’s quite convenient, I like to tell myself, since I can find out whether or not the shower is in use without even getting up, and without potentially awkward moments.

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Email to sibling
Sent July 27th, 2009, at 3:37 am
Location: Vancouver

Have been reading Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason and thus cannot write in a fashion other than diary-form. Have come to life-altering realization that God does indeed exist, because nothing else can explain being viciously attacked by wasp in attic other than Him punishing me for having the idea of purchasing a naughty personal-use object just minutes before incident.

Aforementioned incident resulted in bite to foot, 3.5 hours before salsa lesson. While moaning in pain on coach, with brick of frozen butter taped to foot, realized that would not be able to squeeze frankfurter* that was once my right foot, into dance shoe.

2.5 hours before salsa lesson, realized that sporting dance shoes was no longer main worry of self. Toes protruding from frankfurter almost rendered immobile; began wondering how would move foot during dance lesson.

1 hour before salsa lesson, realized financial consequence of missing lesson would be like throwing away decent sushi lunch, resolutely lugged limb and butter brick off of coach, hobbled over to studio, spent the lesson focusing on not contorting face too much while executing turns and solemnly swearing to God that would never think of naughty personal-use objects again.

Reasons for writing to sibling (and sibling’s visiting friend, presumably) at 3:23am:

• being the bigger woman and overlooking the fact that still have not received response to last message.
• asking again for Tajine recipes, as mentioned in last message.
• specifying, unlike in last message, the importance of these recipes: showing ex-boyfriend how modernly cultured I am and thus quite obviously above his present girlfriend all the while subtly emitting vibes that suggest that I am above such base comparisons and no longer care.
• also specifying that previous bullet point was a joke used to add to humouristic style of this message. (Thus hoping God will not punish self through wasp bite on second foot.)

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Signing off,
Curious Cockroach

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* frankfurter: traditional German sausage.

August 17th, 2010
Location: the attic

“The Life and Times of the Curious Cockroach!?” What a vile name for a blog. You seem like a nice girl, dear, why not name it something a little more … pleasant? For example, The Life and Times of the Blissful Butterfly, or The Life and Times of the Merry Mantis, or … hold on, I’ve got it: The Life and Times of the Cheery Chipmunk. Oh, I’d love to read something like that. But Curious Cockroach? No, no, dear, that just won’t do.”

So went the argument of a freckled little lady I met on the bus last week. I had been feeling unusually chatty and began telling her all about my new and exciting plans after she commented on my hair clip. It’s too bad that she got off the bus before I had a chance to explain that unlike with butterflies, mantes, or chipmunks, cockroaches and I go a long way back.

My earliest memory of cockroaches goes back to my childhood, when I was still living in an old Soviet block building in Brovary, Ukraine. The apartment was infested with cockroaches, despite my parents’ repeated attempts at poisoning them. Eventually I had to accept their presence, but I was never able to break the habit of wincing in anticipation before lifting up just about any object – even the tub of cockroach poison itself.

Worse still was when the pests made an appearance right in my cottage cheese desert – well, at least that’s what I was fooled into believing for about ten years of my life. It turned out that they were actually raisins and that my dad had finally succeeded in ruining my appetite for desert. But that story is for another post. So if one of these days you find yourself bored of reading proper things with cheery titles, perhaps you will take a look through my stories – I promise you that soon enough you’ll be refreshingly disturbed.

So who am I, you might ask, and why do I continue to associate with cockroaches? I am a twenty-year-old, and, like many twenty-year-olds, I don’t know what to make of life. And I suspect most cockroaches don’t have the faintest idea on the subject either. Which is why I admire them for making the most of what they are given – three pairs of legs and a very thick exterior — and experimenting living in different surroundings and climates. Their adaptability has enabled them to find a niche for themselves as pests in human habitations (but surely they don’t view themselves as such), and as a result they are among the most successful insects on the planet. Who wouldn’t find their curiousity and bravery exemplary? So if by the time I am thirty, I too am able to find my place in the world, I will be very grateful to have had such great role models.

So from here on, I am the Curious Cockroach. Let’s see where I end up.

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(Note:This website is still undergoing construction, with many changes to be made, and rough spots to be smoothed over. But I figure that that’s fitting. What respectable cockroach waits for a home to be perfectly finished before moving in? None that I’ve met – and certainly not the legitimately curious ones.)