The only thing I cringe at more than roaches would be fleas. I hate fleas. They're bloodthirsty attack vessels on a covert-ops mission to invade your house when you're least expecting it (i.e., the dead of winter)...and then they decide not to kill you but rather to torture you. After the hurricane last year, I went to check on my brother's house, which had been closed for over a week post-storm because he'd been called up to military duty. During that one week of no electricity and muggy weather, a few fleas had turned into an entire organized militia. And in walked me, a free meal to a starving community and a ride to freedom. My ten minute "check" of the house turned into about 70 flea bites and scars I still have.
So, I'm extremely paranoid about fleas, but I kind of have reason to be that way. I see one--I'm freaking out and spraying and washing everything in sight. I have indoor cats that never go outdoors because I hate fleas that much. But, this past winter, a raccoon broke through our screened-in porch (read: chewed or tore a hole through the screen) and brought fleas to my cats.
Hundreds of dollars worth of professional-strength sprays later, the flea problem just won't go away! Doug sprayed some uber-spray last Saturday, and everything seemed better. But last night, I went to get another nightgown (the eau de squash that Amelia had decided to give me just wasn't my style) and as soon as I stepped on the rug by my bed, I could tell we'd had another "hatching." It's like they said, "Party!!!" because miniature dots started excitedly jumping up and down like they were at a rock concert. Crowd surfing took on an entirely different meaning. So, midnight last night, I'm washing rugs in hot water again and telling Doug he'd better stop by Greco's and pick up some Revolution to put on all the cats. Drastic times call for drastic measures.