MAGGOTWATCH '08

Sorry for the delay, folks. It's been just a madhouse. Anderson Cooper's people have set up his custom Airstream directly across the street. The neighbors are getting salty about the round-the-clock helicopter coverage. In the interest of bringing some journalistic credibility to Buggletown, I've reprinted (with permission, of course) Anderson's upcoming feature for 60 Minutes here, in its entirety:

It's early morning here in Buggletown, another typical day in this typical Southern California neighborhood. But as we take a closer look - or more accurately, a closer whiff - we're struck by the sense that something has gone horribly wrong in suburbia.

From the moment I open the front door of this small, mid-century tract home, I'm overwhelmed by the rotten stench of decay. Our cameras follow Bugglemama, a name she's given herself to avoid social ostracism, as she shuffles through her morning routine haphazardly, guiding herself and her two young children through a hazy stink nearly as palpable as the household clutter strewn about. She seems irritable, almost listless. When I ask Bugglemama about her plight, she's distracted, evasive.

"I don't have time for this. I mean, sure, there are people in like, Africa who would probably kill to have a roof over their heads that rains maggots. Whatever. Have you seen Bugglegirl's purple Croc?"

The doorbell rings. A lanky, uniformed man with a receding hairline and a passing resemblance to James Taylor is at the front door. It's Steve, the Bugglefamily's Terminix technician. A look of relief washes over Bugglemama. They have an understanding, she and Steve - an understanding that requires few words. The technician swiftly sets up his telescoping ladder and disappears into the recesses of the stifling attic after his prey.

Meanwhile, Bugglemama whirls about the house like a trauma surgeon on crack, addressing Buggleboy's spilled Cheerios and Bugglegirl's skid marks with a frenetic sense of monumental importance generally reserved for catastrophic natural disasters. One wonders: is self-destruction looming near? Is the seemingly never-ending parade of disease-ridden vermin combined with the strain of a grueling summer's end simply too much for one mother to bear?

Oh, the humanity.

Fewer than ten minutes later, Steve emerges from the attic, a recycled plastic grocery bag containing the wretched corpse dangling from his hand. He saunters casually to the kitchen to have the paperwork signed, but Bugglemama is transfixed by a raised, pinkish smear across the front of his khaki uniform. Unable to avert her eyes, she points out the innards in spite of the awkwardness.

Steve chuckles, "Oh, that. Don't worry. That's just my Jamba Juice. Strawberry banana," as he swipes a finger across his shirt. Bugglemama shares an uncomfortable laugh, pens her signature, and bids the Terminix guy farewell.

One can't help but ponder whether or not ordinary life in America will ever be quite the same.

Why, is that a MONTANA 60 you're drinking?

Here is the recipe for a very refreshing cocktail I concocted out in the wilderness of Fortine, Montana. It's a makeshift take on an old classic, the French 75. I'm on my second one right now and feel so lovely that I just had to share it with ya'll.

Fill a highball glass with ice.
Pour a "five count" of vodka (my new favorite way to measure alcohol without a jigger, courtesy of my sister-in-law).
Fill glass with grapefruit juice to about two-thirds from the top.
Squeeze in a slice of lime.
Top with champagne and stir once, gently.

The "60" is in honor of my mother-in-law's birthday, the reason for our trek to the wild wild west. Jury's still out on whether or not this posting will be the extent of my revelations regarding the trip. I mean, what more could I possibly have to say about traveling with the entirety of my in-laws?

I have the best new diet plan!

WARNING: This post may result in decrease or loss of appetite, nausea, or outright volatile vomiting.

I know you're all just dying to hear about my week of in-law togetherness in the wilderness. But I'm just not ready yet.

There's been too much drama in the air since we got home Sunday night. By drama, I mean a mysterious reek reminiscent of sour milk, spoiled hot bananas and smushy poo diapers. Eau de nasty that hit right as you walked through the front door. The other day I went on a stink hunt, peeking under the furniture's dust ruffles and emptying garbage cans, to no avail. By Tuesday night the odor was pungent enough for me to feel kinda embarrassed to have the babysitter over.

The next morning as I was walking from the den into the kitchen to retrieve Bugglegirl's sippy cup, I noticed a mess of what appeared to be sawdust with black bits flecked throughout, scattered on the striped throw rug. When I returned to the spot with the vacuum and peered closer, some of the debris was moving. More like wriggling. Tiny centimeter-long, flesh-colored, make-me-want-to-puke grubby things were writhing through my carpet and underneath the throw rug.

I immediately ordered the kids back to the couch to watch t.v. and began sucking up the little buggers with the carpet setting. The vibration of the machine made them bounce about frantically right before whirling them up into the HEPA BAG OF DEATH.

Once I'd exterminated the whole lot (save one repulsive specimen that I scooped up into an LA Lakers playoffs souvenir cup for imminent laboratory testing), my next instinct was to phone my go-to person for all things money-pit related: Dad. But I didn't. I thought about consulting Bugglehub - but didn't. In an uncharacteristically sophisticated move, I took immediate command of the situation and phoned Terminix. (Some of you savvy readers will note that it's only taken me seven years to realize that, matrimonially speaking, consultation is just another euphemism for inaction.)

"Sounds like termites."
"But, they look like little grubs."
"Well, there's several different kinds."
"When can you send someone out?"
"I can have someone there between twelve and two today."
"Great."

In the time it took to have this conversation with Terminix, three more worms magically appeared on the carpet. It was as though they were falling from the wood-panelled ceiling. OH, GAG ME, THEY WERE FALLING FROM THE CEILING.

For the next three hours, I stood at the kitchen entryway like a Buckingham Palace guard, my vacuum nozzle poised for action, warding off any approaching child with a grim expression of impending doom. I remained eerily stoic, but for the forty-seven times I shook my hair out and clawed at it frantically, convinced they were dropping onto my scalp.

By the time the exterminators showed up at the door, we appeared to be grub-free. Buggledaddy happened to be stopping home after a meeting, just in time to hear the prognosis. I grabbed my trusty specimen cup and thrust it at the technicians as we walked into the den.

"Aaaah. Yes. I was thinking, because of the smell, you know. . .this is a maggot."

Yes, gentle reader, you're throwing up in your mouth a little bit, aren't you? My sympathies.

In a typical display of ridiculous silver-lining optimism, Bugglehub exclaimed, "At least it isn't termites, honey!"

Anybody else thinking about the orange tree? Anybody else thinking that a rat crawling into my attic to die and hatch maggots to fall on my progeny after I condemmed its favorite snack bar is too creepy to be a mere coincidence? Hello, Wes Craven?

Oh, but it gets better. These two "exterminators," since they were there to provide me with my complimentary termite inspection, were unable to recover the putrid, maggot-ridden carcass, as it was lodged too far back behind the air conditioning duct the little shit had chewed through. Lest they muss their hunter green polo shirts, I suppose. So they'd have to send out my regular guy, Steve. The next day.

Greetings from the wilderness

Howdy, people. As most of you know, I'm at a dude ranch. Like, riding horses. They don't really do blogging up here in Montana. More on that later.