Oh Crap. I haven't been reading your blog. I haven't been writing on mine. Hell, I can't even seem to find the time to publish some witty comment on what you have written. I'm a boob.
But I have a good reason, and it is funny, in a black humor sort of way.
My plate has been full to overflowing. The story goes like this, and I will present it in points, so feel free to skim.
I took time off from work so that Flannery and I could celebrate our ten year anniversary. We were going to go to Chicago to meet some of you and relive some wild times in a hotel room in the second home of the blues. Time and money came into play and we canceled the trip and made other plans.
So we made plans to go to my hometown and visit family and friends at about a two hour drive away.
Fate came into play and about a week ago our cat got out. She is an indoor cat. This has never been a problem before. Once or twice our fat, black pussy has stayed out all night and always came home in the morning, just as she did this time. The only exception is, this time, she brought home company. Fleas. Lots of them.
Instead of the fun and romantic get-away that we had planned, we staid home to bomb the house and wash every stitch of clothing we own.
We did manage to get away to Ceder Point, voted the best amusement park in the world 9 years in a row and enjoyed what they had to offer, while the foggers did their work. What we didn't count on was the fact that everyone else for three states had the same idea. It was packed. We waited 45 minutes for a hamburger, not to mention the rides.
We got home Sunday at 4 a.m. and went to bed with plans to continue our attack on the fleas when we woke up.
It would be easier to remove a navy tattoo with a butter knife than to rid your house of fleas. The fight continues.
To top the whole thing off, in the chaos that I've been wrestling, I forgot the birthdays of two dear and tender friends.
I am a BOOB. I am a CAD. I am, in no uncertain terms, a SHIT.
These two folks are more precious to me than my right arm and I forgot both of their birthdays. It seems there is no end to my screw-ups and short-comings.
I am in the process of throwing out, washing, and burning everything we own. It might be a bit before I can get back to you, so if you believe in God, say a little prayer for me. If you don't, just cross your fingers and wish me well. I welcome any help you can muster.
Miss you dearly, Doc.
Ugh. Saying the flea death prayer for you. I learned a few years ago to drop fleas combed off the cat into a bowl of alcohol. Burns the little f**kers to death, and helped me get that mess under control.
ReplyDeleteYou might try using that butter knife to remove your fat black pussy, now that she's a flea slut.
ReplyDeleteI don't envy you. We had flea-ridden Bassets during a forgettable period in my life. I remember walking into the Room In Question and watching the pesky little peckers on the carpet turn towards the new heat source (me) when I was still a good 6-8 inches away. They are insidious (like you needed to be told). Good luck to you.
Fleas. Nothin' worse.
ReplyDeleteConsider my fingers crossed and your well-wished.
ReplyDeleteGood luck to you
Good luck with the fleas, if the foggers don't work you might consider tactical nukes.
ReplyDeleteI hear they work on everything but cockroaches.
May the fleas of a thousand camels...
ReplyDeleteHere's what you do. You turn off the heat in your house for a day. You then borrow the neighbors dog, take off the flea collar (not that they really work anyway) and send the dog in the house for awhile. Then promptly walk the dog back to the neighbors. THEN you bomb the place. Then spray for flea eggs. Then wait 3 days and bomb it again. Then you may, just may, have a chance.