Fleas

That old saying, "There are no fleas on him," doesn't apply to all of us at the herewegogain house.

Mr. herewegoagain will want me to explain that sentence. He doesn't like the implications of dirt and um, black plague. It's a long story, but so typical of a day in my life that heck, I'll blog it.

My brother owns two houses in our little town as investments. One is brand spanking new. One is about 100 years old. The old one has had tenants in it for the past seven years, and lately they moved out, prompting him to ask me a "favor".

"Could you go over to the little red house and see what kind of shape they left it in and let me know?" he emailed me from the other side of the world. How could I resist? Besides, my little family had lived in that very house 12 years ago--rowdy son and sweet girl had been born while we lived there, so we were all ripe for a walk down memory lane.

I turned the key, opened the door, and gasped. The tenants had broken every aspect of the lease. No smoking? The walls and window coverings were yellow with nicotine stains. The smell was such that I wondered if second-hand smoke could actually last 30 days in an untenanted house. The place was really dirty, very "badly used" and plain ol' depressing. We used to have a cute nursery where now was a dingy room with peeling paint and countless nail holes. The formerly cheery kitchen could easily be featured on a scary episode of "How Clean Is Your House?". I really can't talk about the bathrooms. This is a family site, after all.

We left and locked the door, while I mulled over my mental laundry list of why the tenants weren't getting their deposit back, starting with the missing washer and dryer. As I pulled away, rowdy son looked down and shrieked, "What are all the little black bugs?" followed by sweet girl's cries from the back seat..."They're hopping everywhere!" I looked around, horrified. They were covered in fleas.

Oh yeah, another part of the lease the tenants broke...they had a dog.

We had to stop at the grocery store before heading home. I begged the kids to stop scratching and crying as we walked into the building (this IS a small town, after all). We went straight to the pesticides where rowdy son loudly read all the labels and proclaimed that none would work on FLEAS. I hustled them home and straight into showers, thinking that surely it was "over" by now.

Not so.

Today we got in my car to head over to the house to fog it. I had my little canisters all ready and I was sure in such a small house that this would be the solution. We weren't out of our driveway before the kids screamed about fleas again. Apparently my CAR was now infested. Rowdy son counted out loud as he squished them and sweet girl just kept asking when we could go home. We had a disturbing conversation about not eating fleas. I stopped at the offending house, left the kids in the car with the car fleas--while I went to battle with the house fleas. I ran in, set off one bomb, then ran to the back room to set off the other, then ran outside. After I got in the car, I had a plan. We went to Walmart to buy flea powder. If it works on carpet and couches, why not cars?

As the kids walked through the aisles scratching and moaning, I picked out the likeliest container and went to ring it up. At the checkout counter I was the unwilling subject of more talk than I ever remember in 14 years of living in this town. "Fleas?", said the lady in front of me. Rowdy son and sweet girl looked up pathetically from their scratching. She proceeded to tell me the best way to get rid of them, while the cashier nodded enthusiastically--chiming in now and then with HER favorite remedies. People behind me had flea stories. I felt like sliding under the counter. We left in a hurry as people shouted, "Good luck" behind us.

Then I did something stupid. I was driving by the red house on my way home and thought, "I'll go back in, and spread this powder around to add to the fogging". The kids begged me not to go back in that house. But, feeling much like Jack Bauer, I took a deep breath and ran in to spread the powder. Very much unlike Jack Bauer, I ran out of breath within 1.2 seconds. Then I panicked and ran out. I'm sure that now I have taken ten years off my life. All to kill a flea (or two million). At least Jack is always saving the world.

I finished taking more years off my life when, after I got home and sent the kids to the showers I started powdering my car. Since it is like a fine talc, it coated my lungs nicely, adding to the foggy stuff I breathed. I had to finish by vacuuming it all thoroughly, then throwing away the bag. I am still waiting for mr. herewegoagain's comments on what it takes to get me to thoroughly vacuum my car.

I am supposed to manage my brother's new house. Previously, I actually argued with him on a pet policy--I thought families with pets were nice and stable and I love dogs and cats. He didn't want pets. After today, I have to think he might have a point.