I’m whipped. If my butt was dragging any more than it is right now, I’d have to have a skid plate installed on my caboose. And it’s Monday. Jeez. But let’s review why I’m suffering from a serious hitch in my giggy-up today:
Remember those maggots? The ones the RT and I worked so hard to rid our hacienda of — what, about hmmm…nine days ago? Yes, those. And since I’m in a quizzing type of mood, how many days do you suppose it takes for one of those lil’ maggots to hatch? Uh…that would be…yup. Nine. Give or take a day. Are you still with me here?
So that would mean that when I came home from somewhere last week after only being gone for a couple of hours, what do you think I was greeted by? Do I hear anyone with “flies” for $500? Yes, flies.
Hundreds of them. No, I’m not practicing hyperbole. It’s true. They were congregating in one corner of a large window that looks out on our patio….and two more windows that are in the dining room, and another window in the living room. Totally and completely gross. But just for the records, no where near as disgusting as the maggots.
And do you think that we’d own a flyswatter? Uh, no.
But damp dish towels and dishrags are swell fly snappers. You can just go crazy flapping the rag and watch those little black winged annoyances hit the floor in any number of gruesome parts. A head here, a thorax there. The only problem is, sometimes they’re just stunned, and then I find one sort of wandering in a dazed, limping fashion and have to snap it again just to practice my aim. The dog totally hates it, and lowers herself from the couch to slink upstairs. No, I do not hit my dog. She’s just a big chicken.
This swatting ‘stravaganza went on for three days. Three. I think I got the last one this morning. The problem is, they’re ready for sex and babies two days out of the pupa. Little suckers. So that means while I’ve been snapping the 250 progeny of that one fly left in our house not quite two weeks ago (yes, those little obnoxious insects can lay that many eggs in one sitting…) the remaining one was most likely having an orgy somewhere in our house last night with a friend just sitting and waiting out of my range for the occasion.
And I’ve been persistent about getting rid of all of them because of course, they carry disease. But wait, you say? They were born and raised in our house, so where could disease come from? Well, they were fairly stupid flies, never exactly finding the cat box in the laundry room, but that was a possibility. The real issue is that they could have found the RT’s bathroom. The one I don’t want the health department to find? The one I tried to shoot Lysol POWER Toilet Bowl Cleaner into from about five feet so I wouldn’t have to actually walk in there? Yes, that bathroom.
Like I was saying, no flies for me.
Plus, my oldest son, my brother and his family came to dinner last night, so I couldn’t exactly have buzzing insects in the room and on the food. It’s disgusting to even think about. I scrubbed, and wiped, and vacuumed around and under everything. Hell, I even vacuumed the Yack-Star. I’m sure she’s ready to leave home since I gave her a bath last week, and now have resorted to using the upholstery brush to suck the fleas off her hind quarters. I don’t think she could quite decide whether she liked it (she had her rear hiked up in the air) or was flipped out (her eyes looked as if they were ready to pop out of her head). She’s lucky I don’t have a Flowbee…
So I’m completely pooped. But it was worth it, because dinner was relaxing. Very. And to be honest, I could be whipped for more than just snapping flies and cleaning and cooking. Perhaps it was this…
Have you ever tried German dessert wine? Well, have you? It’s thick. It’s sweet. And this one smells like flowers and tastes like apricots. You have to SIP it. S-L-O-W-L-Y. And of course, there were two more types to sample after this one. “It never gives us a headache,” my sister-in-law told me the last time we sampled the wine. Umm-hmm. Right.
But today, well, as I mentioned previously, I’m considering that skid plate about now. But it could have been worse…
Waking up to the fragrant aroma of a rich, dark coffee, my day would have been perfect. Except the smell of coffee was coming from…uh…me. I reeked of it and most likely have the remnants of a fine grind on my sheets. No, I didn’t sprinkle it on myself in an attempt to stave off the anticipated hangover. Last night, I opened a fresh container of coffee I occasionally treat myself and others to on special occasions. It has a lid with a pull top and must be vacuum sealed. I’m not sure about what went wrong, but when I pulled the tab, there was a very loud pop, a rush of air, and a good portion of the finely ground black gold sprayed me from head to chest. And whatever hit my head, promptly dropped down my shirt. If I had died from an insta-caffiene attack, the police wouldn’t have had to use white tape to mark my body because of the amount of coffee sprayed across the kitchen behind me. I’m sure there was an outline left. Bless the MoH’s heart. I was already trying to wipe it from my eyes and hair and dig it out of my decolletage when he gently offered, “You need to go in the bathroom and check yourself.” Oh, really? I suppose he could have said, “BWAH—–HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You look hilarious,” and grabbed the camera for a photo op. But no. He’s a very nice man. Check myself, indeed. Considering that it was quite warm, and I am no stranger to a perpetual coating of sweat, hot morsel that I am…I was bound to smell like the filter in my coffee pot.Â Oooooo, baby.
Yes, I showered. No, it didn’t help.
Clearly, I needed some R & R today. That’s all.Â I don’t think it was too much to expect that I could park my sorry coffee-scented butt at the computer and wallow all over my seriously neglected Bloggsville. But no. My computer or service provider, or who the hell knows — did that ridiculous reassigning of our IP address. I think it does this to get even with me. So I had to fiddle around with the router. And the cable modem. And my network settings. But no. So I had to call the service provider and get warm and fuzzy with the level two help who was nice. While I was crawling under the desk, I asked him about whether they considered that people could be 85 and not able to crawl under desks.Â He didn’t answer me. I asked him if I was annoying him.Â “Oh, absolutely not!” was his quick reply.Â Not helpful.Â But then I fixed it.
So here we are. Finally. Together again at last. I do have a little smile on my face after all of that. Because look what I have.
Yes, it is so. Another badge. WOOT! I LOVE this one. And many, many thanks to Dawn and Ann, the superior creators of TwistedSister and totally Pissed Off. I heart their blog, too! They’re really just softies. I know they are. And they love a number of the same blogs that I do. Meleah, Paisley, Mad Goat Lady, Sam — whom I neglect = ( I’m so sorry, Sam!)– are excellent people. Great minds do think alike. I’m just getting to know Amber. And I can add Freak Parade, Thought Sparks, Radioactive Jam, and last, but certainly never least, The Domestic Minx. Quite the diverse group, don’t you think? That’s what makes it all so worthwhile. You know there are lots more, right? Lots. So if your name isn’t on this list, don’t get your drawers in a wad.
Thanks you guys for totally making my day and loving my little spot in Bloggsville– even if I still can’t get the coffee smell off of me. Good thing the MoH likes the way good coffee smells, huh?
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