I have SO MUCH to tell you... But since we all need to start somewhere, how about I start with the grossest stuff?
We were gone for ten days. We closed our bedroom door so that the pets, who have a tendency to get temperamental when they miss us, and have on occasion puked on our bed accidentally on purpose (the cat) or had diarea on the carpet (the dog) would not be able to trash the place.
But what we didn't know is what was left behind those closed doors. It was something puny, something laughable and insignificant. Something no larger than a flea.
A flea, in fact.
When we opened the doors to the bedrooms ten days later, home sweet home, she, the flea, had become THEM. It wasn't immediately obvious, but by the time I had sat five minutes at my computer, I knew something was terribly wrong. I looked down at my itchy ankles and saw a good twenty fleas feasting on me.
I. Freaked. Out. The scream must have been heard within a 15 miles radius. A flea infestation in my home sweet home!
Now what my husband and I did next was in turn, horrible, pathetic, ridiculous, ingenuous, cruel and all around disgusting.
The fleas were starving, attracted to our body heat like a magnet, and were all over us (horrible). Pants would not do: too loose, so we donned our longest socks --in 93 degree weather (ridiculous) to protect ourselves as we figured out what to do next. I have mentioned before that my husband will not EVER use chemicals to kill bugs, so we had to come up with a solution, and burning the house down wasn't one of them, although tempting let me tell you. We began to vacuum the room while wearing our long socks (pathetic) We also needed to quickly kill the fleas that climbed up our legs, but couldn't because they jumped immediately off to another part of the body (horrible, pathetic) So we used saran wrap to capture them (ingenious, ridiculous) before popping them between our nails (gross!)
Now we were vacuuming in our socks in 90 degree heat, covered in cling wrap, pecking at each other like two flea-infested baboons and realizing in despair that considering the prodigiously rapid life cycle of the flea this would take us the rest of our lives.
So we had an idea. SPCA people please close your ears. What we did was release the dog into the room (cruel! ingenious!) In instants the dog was covered in fleas, probably a hundred fleas, maybe two hundred. Then my husband and I took the dog outside and spent the next three hours combing the fleas out of her and dipping the fleas into soapy water to kill them, then returning the dog to the room for a refill, and back at it again with the flea combs, all the while congratulating each other for being complete geniuses.
The dog, however, isn't speaking to us.
(by popular demand I have added a picture of what I look like at the moment)