The Art of Catching Lizards

Is there an art to catching lizards? Probably, but I certainly am not blessed with it. I am currently lying in bed, staring at the ceilings, waiting for the pink little lizard that I saw dart across my wall 20 minutes ago. I didn't scream, even though my heart leaped out my chest, and I calmly called for my roommate to come and help me catch a lizard. "A WHAT?!" she exclaims? I ask her to get a pot, but then we realize that a lizard might be slightly harder to catch than your garden variety pest, and so we arm ourselves with towels (as if that makes sense). I put on some winter gloves, as we couldn't find our rubber ones, and begin to shake my backpack that I believe it is hiding under. My roommate stands on the bed, waving my red towel like a matador, but she is self-admittedly less excited for the moment of truth. I said I think the lizard might be in the bag, and we prepare ourself for screams. I shake the bag, and sure enough, the lizard jumps out and on cue, we scream. High pitched girly screams that don't match either of our characters, we scream and leap almost as high as the poor lizard. He retreats under the bed, which much to our chagrin, is complicated by a big purple mattress. We convinced ourselves that a little lizard was nothing to fear, after all, had we been out on the pavement of Florida it would have been nothing to scream at. Had the lizard gotten out of its cage in 6th grade biology, and we had had to catch it and return it to its proper habitat, there wouldn't have been that shrill pitch. But we weren't in Florida, nor in 6th grade life sciences. We were in Cairo, in my bedroom, and we wanted to sleep. So after a fruitless search, rummaging through the various items on my floor, and after scouring the ceiling, walls, and corners of my room, I decided to go to bed. After all, its only a lizard. In fact I am encouraged that he has disappeared for good as I am now combating a house fly, and something tells me my ex-roommate wouldn't let that stand on his watch.