I have, praises be to God on high and probably knock wood just for good luck, been fantastically fortunate on the vermin front since I've lived in New York City. The notable exception is the place I am currently housesitting.

This has always been the case -- these guys are not so clean, and in particular they let their pets leave lots of food mess around their bowls. It's the kind of picturesque New York space where you turn on a light and a black carpet disintegrates before your eyes, heading for shelter.

However, over the past year the roaches in this apartment seem to have developed a sense of drama worthy of a USC film-school graduate. (Sorry, kiddo.) Witness the past two days' stunts:

The Godfather
Having made my way barefoot through many tiny swarming roaches in the kitchen to grab a last glass of water before bed, I return to the bed... only to discover that the granddaddy of them all, some three inches long and thicker than my thumb, is NESTLED AMONGST THE FEATHER PILLOWS.

Jaws
Again going for a late-night glass of water, avoiding the dog dish where the action is heaviest. I get about a quarter of the way full when something small and brown falls OUT of the spigot and INTO the GLASS. Alive? Dead? Was it crawling on the spigot or were there MORE IN THE RESERVOIR? I didn't stick around to find out.

I can only hope that dealing with the roach problem is on their list of things to do as they renovate. Either that, or they make a mint on these blockbuster plot twists and move to a fancier apartment.