The Office

Just when you thought you had seen it all when it came to Georgia bugs, something happens to prove that those pesky bugs always come up with new ways to freak you out. Personally, I really thought I had gotten my tendency to freak out whenever I see a bug larger than, oh, say my thumbnail under control. I really did. Last fall, for instance, when we had more than our share of roaches try to move into our house, I didn't flinch or squeal once. And, one memorable night, when husband-dear and I were lying on the couch, and a roach came floating down from the vent high over our heads, hovered right in front of us, and almost landed on Zoe's head, the conversation between husband-dear and I went something like this:
"Was that a roach?" (Me)
"I think so." (husband-dear)
"Huh. Is it dead?"
"No, but Zoe's got it."
"OK. Well, I'll call pest control on Monday."
"OK. Let me just make sure Zoe doesn't eat it."
"Sure. Just throw it in the trash."

People, if that's not poised, under control, and most of all, non-freaked-out, then I don't know what is. I was so proud of myself. I was finally bug-proof. And when pest-control came and told me that I'd have to leave any dead roaches I found lying around for a few days, as the little buggaboos are apparently cannibalistic and will eat their own friends and family, even if they are poison-ridden, I just said, "OK.", as though having dead roaches lying around your house is the most normal thing in the world. (I'm actually certain that in Georgia, it is).

Well.
That was a few months ago, and things change.

So I don't know if I've mentioned this, but working on a research grant comes with a lot of perks (How is this related to bugs, you ask? Don't worry, we'll get there). For one thing, it halved the number of class I have to teach, the number of office hours I have to hold, and the number of advisees I'm responsible for. Not that I don't genuinely love teaching and dealing with students, but every once in a while a break is not a bad thing. Then, of course, there is the fact that you get to work on something you really, really like, without having to squeeze it in between classes, appointments, bedtime and breakfast. And there are a whole host of other perks that no one really tells you about until you actually start. Office supplies, for instance. The foundation that pays for my grant gives you office supplies. There is no more begging for paper and toner, no more bringing staplers and holepunches from home. There is simply money to purchase those things. And manila folders. And pens. Have I ever mentioned the severe shortage of those two things on any given campus? The best perk, however, is the fact that you get a separate office. On a campus where space is so tight that some departments have to place two faculty members in one room, office space is the holiest of holies. So while my regular office is small, with a door placed in a very awkward place, the fact that it is my own and has a window makes it pretty close to heavenly. However, it is also the place where everyone and their brother knows to find me. It doesn't matter if my door is open or shut, whether I'm having office hours or meeting with the dean, eating lunch or on the phone, people will find me and demand to see me. And when you're only paid to teach and deal with students 2,5 days out of the week, this is a problem.

So it wasn't long before my program manager decided that the best way for me to remain productive while on this grant was to have a separate office for those days I work on the grant. In a different building. On the other side of campus. A few weeks ago, I first got the key, and this office is the bees' knees. It's square, with the door in a very logical place, and so large I could put a bed in it, and no one would probably even notice. It has a window that opens, new carpet, and will be stocked with brand new furniture in the near future. It's on the top floor of a building filled with researchers and non-teaching programs, and so the hallways are quiet and empty most of the time. To say I was excited was an understatement. In fact, I might have even done a very quiet little dance when I first stepped into the office.

But then my program manager, who is housed across the hallway, showed up with a spray bottle in his hand. You see, the office is housed in a very, very old building. One of those pretty buildings that Europeans always gush over when they visit American campuses. It's beautiful. But old. And old in the south means there are bugs everywhere. Especially roaches. And so my program manager keeps a bottle of industrial-strengh roach killer in his office, and loans it to every new occupant to spray their baseboards. In my case, he argued, it was especially important that I spray my office, since my neighbor had been struggling with a roach infestation for a while now. Lovely. But you know, you're in Georgia, you know all about roaches, you take the spray bottle, hose your office down, wash your hands, move on, and only keep a slightly squeamish eye on the floor while you get to work. 

That first morning went very well. I settled in, worked, worked, and worked some more. But then I had to run an errand. And when I came back, and opened my office door, I saw something fly across the carpet. My first observation, it was not brown. That was good. It was also not round. That was also good. It was, however, something a little unexpected, namely green and long. Round and brown is gross but fairly normal, so I wasn't sure how to feel about green and long. The green and long thing stopped running around, and hid under one of my chairs. Whispering "eeuw, eeuw, eeuw!" under my breath, I kneeled down, gazed at the critter, and then squealed in all earnestness when I realized that I had a gecko in my office. A fully grown, green, and incredibly spooked gecko.

My squeal brought my program manager and his neighbor out of their offices, who looked at the gecko with all the curiosity one would expect from a couple of boys. Men, I mean. Apparently geckos eat flies, do all sorts of other useful things, and score very high on the "that's so cool!" men-scale. I was not impressed. However, the gecko had since hidden under my filing cabinet, and was not to be stirred from his or her spot. So I sighed a really big sigh, sat down, and figured that I would at least not be bothered by any flying insects any time soon.

The gecko has made his appearance every once in a while since. It flutters from the filing cabinet to the desk to the baseboard on the other side of the room, and like me, it can't wait until I get more furniture for it to hide under. Every time I see it scoot around, I jump a little, but as I'm definitely not going on a gecko-killing mission any time soon, I figure I'll get used to it. In the meantime, I've named the beast too: Greta. Greta the gecko.

Now excuse me, Greta and I have some work to do.