It’s funny how people come into your life and make such a dramatic impact in such a short period of time. Ever since I split from the Fedster, I’ve gotten advice from everyone ranging from the guys who move furniture to the women at the salon to the dudes who run the gas station up the road. Yes, everyone has an opinion. And my bug man is no different.
He’s actually my personal hero. Ever since J-Fed moved out and he started coming around, I haven’t seen one bug, except the big one. Any man who can accomplish such a feat deserves to be inducted into the Basketcaseville Hall of Fame. Anyways, bug man put in an appearance today and it proved to be an eye-opening experience.
He was chatting me up about the benefits of letting lizards reside in your house (all for it!), why ants come in after the rain (die bastards) and how German cockroaches are the worst of the lot (ewwwww). Anyways, our small chat on little bugs quickly turned into a major heart to heart on the big bug, the big bug being J-Fed.
When I explained to the bug man that the reason I needed his services so frequently was that love didn’t live here anymore, and neither did my husband, his jaw hit the ground. Even my friends and family hadn’t been as shocked as the bug man was.
Between the three wise men at the gas station and the bug man, I was wondering if they might all group together and stage an intervention. I tried to switch the subject upon seeing how emotional he’d become and went back to the matter at hand.
“I mean, I can’t be killing palmetto bugs. I hate those things. My 5-year-old is terrified of them. I grow faint on sight, and the dogs just walk back to their beds and do absolutely nothing to take those guys down. The day J-Fed moved out, I hired you,” I told him.
After finding out that *I* was the man of the house, I half expected him to try and sell me the deluxe bug off package complete with termite spray, gnat repellant and a plethora of other useless services. But oh no, he took the high road…
“How can you have no husband? What about the kids???” he said with a desperate tone in his voice. Man, I hadn’t seen a guy get this worked up over something since my dad watched Jon Voight take a hit in The Champ. I mean he went from 0 to 90 in an instant.
“We can’t be together. We fight and he’s irresponsible,” I said matter-of-factly. The bug man shook his head and leaned against the dresser, holding on to his spray bottle for dear life.
“But you have to give him time. Some men don’t grow up until they’re 50,” he said.
I quickly did the math in my head. That was 18 years, almost two decades.
“I’ll be bankrupt before then,” I told bug man. I envisioned J-Fed and I living under a bridge surrounded by 10 non-functioning go-carts, scraping our food out of the dumpster. Yeah, um, I liked the bug man and all, but I think I made the right decision. He had other ideas.
“No, you have to work. All marriages have their problems. There isn’t a marriage that doesn’t have problems. You have to work at it. You know?” he said. He drew me in and whispered to me what I expected to be the secrets of the universe or at least the secret for keeping out the cockroaches for good. But oh no… “You think you’re going to find another man. You’re not. All men are the same. All women are the same.”
Was J-Fed paying this guy, I wondered. Oh no, that’s right. I was paying him, like I paid for just about everything. Little did I know for $79 every two months he wasn’t just going to rid my house of pests, he was going to throw in a little counseling for good measure. God bless him.
“You know what’s going to save your marriage? You know what’s going to bring you back together?” he asked me.
The lottery? A lobotomy? A near death experience? A Freaky Friday type switcheroo? Tell me bug man, what in the hell was going to be able to salvage my irretrievably broken marriage? Because if anyone should know about living with rodents, it’s you.
“Jesus. You need Jesus, my dear,” he revealed. Ok, he was right. I had Jesus. He hung on a gold cross in my jewelry box. I was a believer. Of course, he was right in a way. It was going to take a serious religious experience to transform the Fedster.
“You still love him?” he asked.
“Well of course, but that doesn’t mean I can live with him” I exclaimed.
“Read the Bible and pray every night and he’ll come back to you. Read the bible and you’ll become the woman he wants. Pray every morning and every night. ‘God give me my husband back. You change him God, not me’. Now, you go. You go and get him back,” he said with a knowing smile. I think he expected me to throw on my Nike pumps and run over to J-Fed’s apartment, profess my love and drag him off to church. But that wasn’t going to happen.
A. I needed new sneakers; mine wore worn out
B. I didn’t run anywhere unless I was being chased
C. The Fedster wasn’t home; he was at the track
D. The only thing I was going to profess was my dissatisfaction with the fact that he hadn’t washed the dogs like he promised.
E. I couldn’t bring J-Fed to church; he’d burst into a ball of flames the minute he stepped through the door. If I was mad, God had to be pretty pissed off too.
Anyways, I gave the bug man an “Amen” for his efforts. He obviously believed in the sanctity of marriage and appeared to be more emotionally invested in my broken marriage at this point than I actually way. But in all reality, I wasn’t sure that God wanted me to bring the Fedster back. All of the signs were pointing in the direction that J-Fed and I were a done deal. Nonetheless, I squeezed the bug man’s arm and promised him I would pray tonight.
And with a twinkle in his eye, he shot up the chimney and out into the good night. Ok, so he used the front door and not the chimney. But it still sounded better. In the meantime, I came up with a good prayer so bug man’s efforts weren’t in vain.
Dear God,
Give me strength to accept the things I cannot change and then try even harder to change them.
Help me to not tell J-Fed to piss off for the next week.
Keep the children safe, sound and away from any kid that has a stomach virus.
Bring Kuku back home so I don’t have to do this all myself anymore.
Oh, and please let there be a sale on 7 Jeans this week and help me find a pair that don’t make my butt look so flat.
In the bug man’s name I pray, Amen.
Addendum: During my session with the bug man, J-Fed called approximately five times. When I finally called him back, he gave me the third degree.
“Hot lunch date?” he said sarcastically.
I gave him an emphatic no and went on to explain to the Fedster that I had been on a conference call, wrapping up a deadline and conversing with the bug man.
“The bug man? Oh it didn’t take you long to get him back?” he said, referring to a guy who I was dating when I first met J-Fed… 10 YEARS AGO! He happened to have been in the business of pest control. Yeah, like I’d really had a chance to track him down in all my spare time – like I’d even want to. Sigh.
“No, J-Fed. Our bug man, the one who’s been taking care of the bug problem now that you’re no longer around to do it,” I told him.
“Oh ok. Just making sure,” he said with an air of satisfaction.