Gah!

I knew the terminator would come while I was working out. Knew it. (And yes, I refuse to stop calling him the terminator. Terminix + exterminator = terminator. If they didn't want that nickname they should have had the foresight to name themselves Flernimix or something. Flerminator wouldn't be so tempting.)

Once a month the guy comes and sprays around the house to keep away the spiders (ew! spiders!) and ants (ew! ants!) and, apparently, peep through our floor-to-ceiling windows. This wouldn't be so bad if I didn't work-out in a sports bra and little shorts that I would DIE DEAD OF DEADNESS to be seen in. Figures.

I spot him in the yard, press pause on the DVD and run into the bedroom to hide. Maybe he didn't see me?

Except then he decides to knock on the door (not protocol!) and he keeps knocking and knocking and knocking. So I go to answer (after throwing on a shirt) and he tells me he saw me exercising so he knew I was home. FANTASTIC.

I knew exercising was bad for me. Not only does it make me tired, cranky, sweaty and pained - it makes me answer the door!

Good thing he wasn't a solicitor, or I'd be the proud new owner of a set of encyclopedias just to get him to GO AWAY OMG.