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.
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