I am unashamedly a big old sissy when it comes to certain matters, and bugs are one of those matters. Now, keep in mind, I was pretty sheltered up in Illinois, where the biggest thing you see is a daddy long-legs. I went twenty-one years of my life having never even seen a regular roach, let alone a giant wood roach, until I moved to Lufkin. In fact, the first time I saw one, it was crawling across the floor in my college classroom, headed straight for my backpack, and I was trying to seem mature while climbing from my chair onto my desk and begging the bug to just take my backpack and leave us in peace (yes, it was that big).
So with all that in mind, owning (or renting) a home here in Texas means just one thing to me - you have an exterminator. I don't even just mean you occasionally call one. I mean, there is a man who is programmed into your speed dial, whom you feel comfortable calling at any moment, who has seen you in your pjs with tears streaming down your face, who comes to your home on a regular basis and handles "icky situations."
Our guy is David, and I'm pretty sure he took some courses either in psychology or broadcast radio, because at just the sound of his voice saying, "Okay, Kate, we'll take care of your buuuuugs (he draws out this word in a particularly soothing way that makes bugs seem practically cuddly)," I feel instantly calmer and more safe.
In fact, I felt so at peace today while he addressed the ants that had sneaked into our kitchen (insidious creatures - anything that comes in a pack instead of by itself is especially disturbing), that I just sat in the recliner, humming to myself and knitting a scarf. Oh yeah, another thing about living in Texas in the summer. I have to try to fool myself into thinking it's not the heat of summer by cranking up the air and making knit crafts. It works - I feel cooler already!
So thank you, David. I officially think you're the man.
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