Let me rephrase that: I've been living with fleas. That's right, Midnight the wonder kitty brought them home. I don't know why she couldn't have just brought us a dead bird or a mole. And what with this heatwave of 87 degrees Fahrenheit and rising for the past week, those little buggers just seemed to flourish. Our ankles are ravished and covered with a Biblical itchiness that made me seriously consider donning a sandwich board proclaiming the end of the world is hand.
But cooler heads prevailed and Doc hid the tempra paints, so we were forced to deal with the problem head on. After two bottles of "Natural" insecticide, a half a bottle of carpet sprinkles, "Frontline Advantage" (Betty White, you are dead to me now) and endless loads of laundry: We still have fleas. So, the cat has been banished to the garage. Actually, she has it pretty sweet. Her cat food is in a new bowl, she's got biodegradable litter boxes, new treats, and she can go outside whenever she wants. Meanwhile, our dryer broke; it's now fluffy inside, since a chenille blanket practically exploded in there. I'm hoping I can take the back off the dryer and clean that shit out of there. Anything to avoid the laundromat, another place you can go to feel like God is punishing you.
Tonight is really important in the war against fleas: If a few things don't happen everything will spiral out of control. This must happen tonight:
- Fix the dryer
- Wash the clothes
- Color my hair
- Paint my nails (done)
- Put ointment on the children
- Finish treating the carpets
- Replace the pillows
It's 7:39 p.m. I don't think I'll get to it.
Any advice? Not that any of you would be the type who would have fleas.