The property management company finally agreed to send out an exterminator and I was told to be home last Thursday between 2 and 3.
And sure enough, right at 2, Gomer showed up. I'll say this about these people, they're punctual.
Amiable but dense, he explained he'd be spraying the baseboards in the "problem" rooms.
"So which room are you having the problem in?"
Well, let's see.... all of them.
I asked him whether it was safe for the dogs, and he said yes. But he suggested we go outside while he was doing it because dogs get curious and tend to come up and try and sniff it as it's going down, which wouldn't be good.
So I wrangled up the dogs, poured a cup of coffee and grabbed the new Crate & Barrel catalog and went out on the back patio, taking a little break to look at all the nice things we can no longer afford. And no sooner had I put my reading glasses on, Gomer poked his head out and announce "All done."
All done?
"Yup."
The entire house?
"Yup."
In five minutes?
"Yup."
I asked him to indulge me and show me his technique. So he walked the perimeter of the room piddling out some pesticide every few feet, like a dog marking a bush.
Oh, OK. That'll work.
He said he'd get to work outside and I told him to go to town. Five minutes later the outside was "done" too. You get what you pay for and he was free, so, whatever.
But damn if it didn't work! For days we were cockroach free. I felt bad for doubting poor Gomer.
But this morning, they're back. Either it was the freak cool snap that sent them into hiding, or they've adapted to the pesticide. Whatever the case, it looks like they're here to stay.
If only I could adapt so easily.
