Posted in daily life

My Flee Bitten Day

Never Ask for Something to Do

If there was one word to describe this week, it would be “hurry.” I’m anxious for next week to hurry up and get here. There’s so many things going on next week and nothing this week. I can’t tell you how many times I walked around the apartment saying/thinking, “I’m bored! There’s nothing to do!”

I really should have known better than to say that.

No sooner did I finish the book I was reading and also the last thing on my “prepare for next week” list than something happened. Flees. Gah. I hate flees. I thought I had killed them two weeks ago. I hadn’t. Like the cat they had infested, they had multiple lives.

Death to All Flees!

Now, I’d lived through flees before. I knew the stuff at the grocery store was no good. Placebos worked better. So I went to the vet to arm myself with some serious flee-killing weaponry: a can of spray, and drops. Unlike the stuff you buy over the counter, these actually kills the flees and their eggs.

Thus, armed with my weapons of choice, I went home and anointed my cat with the drops of poison. Then I sprayed the vile can of mist onto all my carpet, mattresses and cushions until I could spray no more. The mists permeated my apartment–it nearly drove me out (the stuff stinks) so the stuff had better work.

Poisons placed, I then pretended like I was Cinderella and cleaned my apartment from top to bottom. I did my laundry, swept and mopped, and vacuumed every carpeted surface. But had I gotten all the flees? There was only one way to find out.

The Black Light of Doom

My sister told me this secret to killing flees. If I wanted to get rid of flees fast, I needed two things: a container of soapy water, and a black light. That was it. So I obtained a black light, got my soapy water, waited for night to fall, and then sprung my trap. I set the black light over the water, turned it on, and turned all the other lights out.

The next morning, I had four dead flees floating in the water. Yes, you heard me. Four. Laugh if you want, but you know as well as I that four flees can quickly become four hundred. I knew those drops worked–the cat started shedding dead flees while I was still cleaning–but I wasn’t sure about the spray. Thus the water. And black lights are infinitely cheaper than flee poison.

I’m going to be keeping that black light on for the next few nights, just to make sure I got them all.

Posted in Uncategorized

Stay at Home Wife: What is That?

So you’ve heard of the term stay-at-home mom, right? Well, I don’t have any kids yet, and I don’t have a job, so I guess that makes me a stay-at-home wife. Except that I’m at home less than my husband is.

My husband works from home. He spends his days glued to his computer, typing out code and chasing down cyber bugs. (He also spends a portion of his nights and weekends zapping space aliens.) Michael doesn’t have to leave home for anything other than church and fast food.

driving carMe? I’m the stay at home wife who doesn’t stay home. I’m the one running to the grocery store, going to ladies bible class, going to writers critiques. I’m the one who takes the car to get it’s oil changed or its tires fixed. I’m the one running to the gym or playing violin with the orchestra. I get to go to the bank or gas station. I get to do all kinds of chores, and indulge in all kinds of hobbies, while my husband is stuck at home with the cat who likes to sit on keyboards.

Now, don’t think I’m complaining. I love having Michael home. And I love being in a position where I don’t have to work, where I get to have the time to indulge in my hobbies and pursue my dreams. But sometimes I get tired on running around.

Which is why I’m spending my first free Saturday in a month . . . working my butt off to write a dozen blog posts, clean out the litter box, take out the trash, clean the bathroom, doing dishes, and making homemade pizza. Oh, and exercise for an hour so I don’t gain all the weight back that I just lost this week.

Then again, it is Saturday. Maybe I can get Michael to handle the poo and the trash . . . .