Yes, you do need an exterminator here. At least, you do if
you’re us. For those of you who live elsewhere, let me say that carving tidy
human space out of the wild here means fighting against an enemy on his own
ground. Everything in this particular chunk of swampland favors insect kind.
Including the heat and humidity.
We love our backyard blending into wild woods, we
intentionally use minimal chemicals in our yard (that would be closer to
“none”—have you seen our dollar weed?), and we strive to discourage critters by
neatness rather than sprays. So, no, the exterminating chemicals aren’t a big
hit with me. That’s definitely part of it. But I can live with that. Putting a
drop of gel on the back of our light switch plates? C’mon, not even our kids unscrew the plates and lick the
back. Weigh that against finding a roach that can be measured in inches,
plural, running around the kitchen…. Decision made.
An annual going-over by a professional doesn’t seem
unreasonable.
And we have such a fantastic professional—he’s a veteran, a gentleman,
and a sweet, gentle man, just an all-around great guy. If he weren’t so
amazing, I would not be able to handle the thing that bugs me (get it???) most
about the whole process.
He touches our stuff.
No, not really. But he could. He does go into every room in
the house and treat all the accessible light and plug plates, plus cabinet
hinges and drawer backs. In truth, he does a very professional job. It’s just
that…
I’m insanely private and particular. I have weird
preferences—like I prefer no one else fold my laundry (talk about
self-defeating!) and I prefer that street clothes not touch the sheets
and…well, you get the idea. Being in the house while anyone, even the sweetest
exterminator ever, invades our electric outlets and cabinetry is an annual act
of willpower.
Plus he unplugs all the clocks. Do you have any idea what
resetting clocks is like for someone as uptight as me? Oy.
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