Roaches and Silverfish and Moths, oh my!

Although it may seem like it, I haven't exactly been spending the last week or so picking out wedding china and casing out random corners to see who's lurking just around them. No, instead I've been busy moving my china and food and clothes and self in an effort to deal with my pest problems. And you know? The whole process has been a little bit more work than I thought it was going to be. First obstacle: getting my landlord to actually acknowledge things that crawl and fly fall into the category of things he should do something about. And two: getting to the point that I have to just do it myself. And three: actually finding someone to do it. The deal is this: I have one of those landlords who doesn't grasp the concept of being a landlord. (He was left this building by his father who owned it outright. So in his mind, it's just a huge cash cow. Eight units of cash). He also doesn't grasp why people live in apartments (besides having no money to buy a house). It's so someone else fixes the problems. And the goal? To have that someone (read: landlord) do it in a timely manner-- like before the apartment floods (which I've had happen), the roof caves in (which I've also had happen) or the termites eat everything grandma left you. My landlord? That concept eludes him. Totally.

I'm an easy tenant. I don't call for stupid things I can do myself. Or act like everything is a catastrophe. I have my life if I want to do that. Yet, I still got called a "pest" by the late middle-aged asian woman married to my late middle-aged asian landlord when I called to check into what was happening a week after I reported the roaches, and silverfish and moths, oh my! (The termites I didn't even know about. And this was like my fourth call in five years). Now those pests? They ate the crotch out of 2 pairs of pants--lovely, right? And created some random patterns on some cashmere sweaters I own. Now, this kind of thing is quite troubling to me since I can no longer afford to replace crotches or cashmere. And I'm not doing that ghetto boxer thing where they peek on through. It's just not right for a 37 year-old woman. Mrs. Asian Landlord does not care. She yelled at me. And then, she yelled over me when I told her not to yell. I didn't like it so much. So I called my landlord on his cell phone and told him I was troubled by the whole yelling thing. And you know what he said to me? "What can I do? She's my wife." Which in my mind, is a different blog entry for a different day.

In an effort to make peace, my landlord "kind of" dealt with it. He made one phone call and then I had to keep calling the pest control place-- starting to actually feel like a pest-- until I could schedule an appointment. Which-- when all was said and done-- I really didn't want to have to prepare for-- clothes all out of the closet that Steve built. Food and dishes all out of the cupboards Kelly and I just arranged. Cats locked out and us, too. For at least two hours. On a national holiday. Which we spent with the guy at 7-Eleven --(his favorite president: FDR) and the guy at MacEnthusiasts-- (his favorite president: Lincoln-- and yes, I asked-- them both. Personally, I'm kind of partial to Jefferson but that's probably because he wrote something of much more merit than I could ever write). Anyway, as if it was a sign from the pest gods, we saw a silverfish that morning when we were preparing for the exterminator's 8am visit and a little roach family. German roaches, apparently. And if they have a little bundle on the back? More are on the way. So kill it all. Did I mention the the pest situation was informative? Yes, I now know who eats what and why. And it's just as unpleasant as it sounds. Not to mention, I have my childhood experiences to draw on. Yes, we lived in a roach infested apartment when my parents got divorced. And when I say infested, I mean it. They didn't just have families, they created a little continent in our humble abode. In other words, we didn't need imaginary friends. The tile above the bathtub was their freeway. No food was left untouched. And under the refrigerator? Let's just say, I felt bad for our moving men and I bet they never crunched into one by accident when they were eating spaghetti. Hence, my desire to exterminate the situation rapidly.

The exterminator was a pretty cool guy who regaled us with some of his favorite stories from his days and nights spent in rodent control. Which is far more disgusting than roach control and reminds me in not such a happy way of that passage in "American Psycho". Yes, I actually met a person who has a far worse job than I've ever had (even though I do know many more of those exist...sigh). Not only does he have to kill rats, he also has to go retrieve the dead ones a few days after he sprays. (Although, on a positive note he does get to dispose of the things that make his work a living hell, but still, not so worth it.).

All these exterminating hijinks were surrounded by our electricity going out and me having to call my landlord's son to have a handyman come fix the fuses which are in a not so conspicuous area of our place. And while here, he took a seat and started to tell me his theories on alien life forms and Sylvia Browne and how he's read her books and Eckhart Tolle's "The Power of Now" and was on drugs but is now sober and is an actor and has residuals up the wazoo and has a calico cat and wife fourteen years his senior who's a grandma but "it's not a big deal" and how wants to do a one man show. I told him he should do a one man show. He clearly has stories to tell. And I'd like to hear them. Preferably when I'm not trying to write my own. (And no, I didn't say that. But I thought it. So maybe he could tell. I get confused on whether he thought he was an alien or just believed in them).

Anyway, all in all, a fun-filled weekend full of handymen. Which seems to be a recurring pattern lately. Hmmm... I did learn a ways back that my not so smart but oh so cute prom date ended up owning a pool business and selling it for a mint. Not that I'm looking for money in a man but I'm not looking for poverty, either. Not that I'm actually really even looking. And besides, I can't even swim. But a sign. I'll take a sign.