Since I am usually gainfully employed and living in a hotel room somewhere on the east coast for work, I am not usually home when Tyrone, the pest control man, comes by to do his deed each month.
I have done a back of the napkin analysis of my finances and am in the final phases of which luxuries to cut - Cleaning lady gone, DirectTV package reduced, eating pasta from the pantry nonstop (subject of a future post = carbs are NOT the answer) etc...but I will not cut my pest control.
Google "Cave Cricket" and see why. I believe these things preceded dinosaurs and they will be here long the human race has obliterated itself.
When I first moved in to my own condo - my own little plot of land, the American dream - I was so proud. Then THEY arrived. (re: cave crickets).
I would come home and they would be camped out in formation blocking my entrance to my back door. So I would walk all the way around the condo building to go the front door. It was a horrible day when they were bunkered down in front of both doors. I spent an hour throwing sticks at them to get them to clear out so I could get in my house. Finally, a lady with her dog walked by and I begged her to let her dog run around the doorway to clear them out. She said yes. But, then she did look at me funny.
I am TERRIFIED of spiders. But I have gotten to a point where I can deal with them like a grown up, albeit a grown up with very long stick. I cannot, tho, deal with GIANT JUMPING SPIDERS. Which is what these crickets essentially are.
Lets review what happened for 1 year until I hired Tyrone and he got rid of most of those nasty little things for me. Tho I still do see one occassionally and I ask him to use extra spray which I am sure will cause one of my future children to be born with a flipper growing out of its little head...
Anyway, I would open kitchen door after making a mad dash across the patio to the back door trying to avoid the outside crickets. Then I would flip on the lights and scan the kitchen for a cricket. Once a week I would see one, mocking me, in the center of the floor.
So I would go to battle. Armed with a one gallon bucket of bug spray (see: babies born with flippers) in one hand and a swiffer in the other I would douse the little bastard with spray. It would hop AT me (yes, that is their defense mechanism - they are harmless but so ugly looking that they hop AT their enemies to scare them away). After it was weakened and hopefully didn't limp under the stove, I would try to bash it with the swiffer while it was still trying to feebly hop at me. All the while, swearing loudly.
Here is what the neighbors heard during one of these skirmishes:
"SON OF A" bang, bang
"You little F*@%$er" Slam
"Ewwwww, AAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGH!" Clunk
"HA, take that you bastard". VRRROOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM
Oh, the "vroom" is the final step. I can't bear to get near even the shmushed carcass so I vacuum it up (sometimes still alive - evil laugh) into my Red Devil. Note: I have not ever cleaned out this vacuum full of cricket (and for one scary week, waterbug) bodies. And I never will.
So to connect it all back to being unemployed - I will have to find something else to give up other than Tyrone. My hero.