The Problem with Living in a 1st Floor Apartment in NYC

Last night after a wonderful time at my Upper Eastside knitting group I came home to snuggle into our armchair to knit and watch American Idol and the finale of Project Runway. I crawled onto the chair, knitting in hand, and started to get comfy. I’m knitting with a maroon/red ball of yarn that’s getting rather small and unruly. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see the ball of yarn fall and move a bit. I stopped myself from reaching down to pick it up when I realized the ball was moving MUCH too fast to be a ball of yarn. A GIANT cockroach ran across our carpet and into the air tube thing on my subwoofer! The most girly of girly screams (and I'm not girly) came out of me and I jumped up onto the chair for safety. Carl came running out of the bathroom to...uh...rescue me…kinda. We (yes WE, not HE, WE!!!) tried to get the cockroach out of the sub so we could kill him but no he had crawled somewhere deep into the nether regions of the sub. My sub is now sitting in a big plastic bag that’s sealed like Fort Knox. Every time I have to walk by it I expect to here all this rustling as all the cockroaches hiding in my subwoofer try to escape their black plastic cage. YUCK YUCK YUCK. And yes in my mind one cockroach has turned into thousands.

I used to be all attached to the apartment because it was our first apartment together and it was romantic and blah blah blah. I’m over it. We need to move to a new place, preferably MANY floors up. We’re clean people, we have a maid, we don’t leave food all over the apartment so I know it’s not us but our location in the building. The bedroom is next to the garbage area for the building and the living is on the first floor so all those giant dead suckers we see in the foyer on the way into the building have a chance of hiding in our apartment for safety. I’m over this. I want to move to the suburbs.