There are fleas in our house. This is the most demoralizing, disgusting experience of my life and I am including the Bush years. I'm not saying I would trade a flea-free house for another few years of Bush, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit I'd think about it. I'd attend tea party rallies and keep my mouth shut to get rid of them. I'd watch Two and a Half Men for 24 straight hours to get rid of them. I'd give up wine to get rid of them. Bourbon. Cheese.
They're in my car, in my clothes. I've been on a continual loop of laundry for a week now. My bedding (all of it) has been washed no fewer than FIVE times in like eight days. We've vacuumed and steamed and washed washed washed. My commitment to a chemical free house has vanished. The dog is flea-free, but only because she's been doused in a flea and tick mist that she hates. My bedroom carpet is covered in Borax and my mattress is damp from the steamer. There's not a comfortable spot in the house, except Laney's room. Which SOMEHOW, small mercies, has stayed flea-free (I've probably jinxed it).
All the windows are open and I'm praying for a cold, cold night. Maybe that'll do it.
I feel dirty, despite having showered about 8 billion times over the last few days. Feeling dirty, coincidentally, also makes me feel fat. Which is just fucking great.
And the worst of it? It's my own fault! If I'd remembered to frontline the dog monthly as I was warned to, repeatedly, we wouldn't be dealing with this now.
So, look, the moral of this whineypants post: An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure (George, if you're reading this: THAT'S a platitude). But platitudes become platitudes because they're generally fucking true. Save for retirement. Don't drink or smoke too much. Eat healthy. Vote. And, for god's sake, put the damn frontline on the damn dog EVERY fucking month.
