oh god. is there ANY worse humiliation than having your back go out the morning the new exterminator is coming and you can't clean the hole that is your house?? Is there? Oh, but there is. Aside from assigning the inner dialogue that you just KNOW is going on in his head, which ascribes a certain sloth-like label upon you, it's even worse when you walk through the house in the areas to which he has yet to venture, to clean small things as best you can and also to see it through HIS eyes and it's then, mere seconds before he follows you that you notice, in the loft --a part of the house you never visit and which is used to store old books and boxes and the Christmas tree-- you notice that one of your )#@$*( dogs took a nice healthy SHIT up there. That's right. They have free run of the back yard to do with as they will but DO they? NO!!! They choose my pretty (albeit uninhabited) loft...indoors! And it's petrified, people. Hard as a rock. Niiiiiice. Please...oh mother of all that is holy, PLEASE kill me.
And...because it is GRACIE, you know that it's juuuuust going to get worse. Since Le Poop had apparently been there for approximately 40 YEARS, it wouldn't just come up with a paper towel...nope. Of COURSE not...that would make things EASY and BORING. No, the nightmare continued in that it was CEMENTED to the FLOOR. the carpeted floor. GOD. So I hissed to The Kiddo to just go cover it with a box or something so Mr. Bug Man wouldn't see it and worsen the utter humiliation and I'd just deal with it later.
Would you care to guess what happened next??
Yes, that's right, my intuitive readers. Not ONLY did he insist on going up to that room...the one cluttered with boxes and books and trees and hardened SHIT, but he of COURSE went right to the covered poop and moved its mask, freeing it from its oppressive confines and taking my soul-crushing degradation to new heights.
Fucking SIGH.
and STILL it doesn't end.
I'm on the phone with George, whispering sweet discomfiture o' mine and, later, insisting that he explain to me why I'M always in charge of these horrific encounters and he's laughing and joking and one of us expresses relief that at least it's not like the cable guy finding the porn incident.
Aaaaand that's when it hit me. Oh sweet jesus noooooo.
We left porn out. again. and he was IN THERE. The exterminator was IN my bedROOM and he HAD to have seen it.
GOD.
Oh but there's more. Of course there is.
See, my Mr. Bug Man should actually be called COLONEL Bug Man because he looked alarmingly like Colonel Sanders. A bit younger, perhaps, but oooh he does. So I was on the phone with George telling him of all the awful happenings while The Colonel was downstairs in the garage spraying for noseeums. Just to be safe I described KFC dude in a lower voice but I still said it. Just then the dogs started barking, so I assumed Senor KFC had made his way outside to spray the perimeter of the house. Since the dogs were outside (to protect our new friend from their slobbery freakishness) I told The Kiddo to bring the dogs in so he could do what he needed to do and the dogs would be safe and out of his way. As The Kiddo walked past the stairs going down to the garage on his way to the sliding doors and doggies, he looked through the downstairs open doorway and said "But Mom...he's right there..."
NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
He was in the laundry room...about 20 feet away from me. Perhaps not even doing Extermination Bi-ness, but instead eavesdropping on my judgmental phone call with George. I frantically reran the conversation in my head...trying to recall how much I said on my end and how much my husband picked up on and translated on his own...out of earshot. And while George is mighty quick and able to read my thoughts and hints, I'm quite sure I still said too much.
WHEN will I LEARN!?
Thankfully, he didn't let on if he did hear anything; he just went about his tasks, finally making his way outside to take care of things out there while I stayed inside and wailed to George that it had happened once again. He scolded me and reminded me about his Third Thought Rule --that I rarely adhere to-- wherein I'm only allowed to voice every THIRD thought that I have in the hopes that I will humiliate myself only about a third of the time. Yeah, RIGHT.
Senor Bug Man came back inside to lay some ant traps around and when he walked in? My son and I were sitting on the couch watching a movie and I noticed something...odd. His...shirt was untucked. It wasn't untucked a few minutes ago when he LEFT the house to go to his car. Yet it was now. the HELL?!
I sent George a text message telling him as much and he replied, ever so concerned for my safety: "Prolly he's just hot from all the chicken fryin'"
Welcome to my life.
There aren't enough Siiiighs in the world to encompass my constant companion: embarrassment.
And people wonder why I'm such a homebody...rarely venturing outside the sweet security of my home. THIS is why.
