Dear Liza, dear Liza...

There's a cricket in my office.

This may not sound noteworthy to you, but it's serious. Our house had been completely uninhabited, yet full of junk, for over a year before we moved in. Also, given that we're a far, far cry from being clean freaks, when the master's away the crickets shall play. Every room in our house has at least a dozen crickets in it. I don't believe I'm exaggerating either. The bedroom is the worst because there's warm corners with dirty laundry and cozy shelves of clean cotton pants. They serenade their lovers all night with their squeaking and make more cricket babies that are harder to catch.

I'm getting better at squishing them in the most humane way possible. You want to go for the head. It's easy to get the body, but sometimes their antennae and little puny brains will still be going after their legs and abdomen have released the ooze. I've discussed the best way to go with the spouse. He agrees with me that being crushed swiftly in the hands of a giant monster would be preferable to drowning. I haven't tried rubbing alcohol yet, but I think I'd prefer swift blunt trauma to gassing.

The fact is they have to go. This is my house now and I'd share with you if only you didn't chirp so much at night and stain my whites with your black exoskeleton when I accidentally washed you with the laundry pile.

Now I think there's one behind the three 4-drawer file cabinets in my office. My day-time haven has been infiltrated.

Dear Liza, CRICK-ET!