Skip to main content

I have fleas.

The love of a cat can be difficult to understand exactly. Mine, for example, likes to bring me dead mice, birds, squirrels, and even bats from time to time. Others just like to snuggle and purr (he does that, too, of course). A few weeks ago, as an act of ultimate kitteh luffs, he brought me fleas.

I love Marcel, really I do. But I tried really hard to hate him for this. (The problem is he's too damned cute & sweet to hate....) All the same, whether I love or hate the damnable fuzzhead, he got my bed infested with fleas. And possibly my bedroom. And maybe even the entire basement Parker & I live in. Sigh.


So it's been a bit weird since I figured out the flea problem. Changing sheets every night, vacuuming tons, setting up a dehumidifier to control the fleas some. I honestly haven't personally found any more on my bed, but who knows....

I'm paranoid with formication--everywhere I go, I'm convinced there's fleas on me. Anytime some hair on my forearm shifts, I'm convinced it's a flea. Every random itch I can't shake, same thing.

To be fair, two of the times I felt those sensations turned out to be actual fleas--that's how I found out there were fleas in my bed in the first place. It's still kind of driving me crazy though.


Anyway, right now I'm upstairs blogging on the TV computer instead of down in the basement. I just laid down some flea-deathing carpet powder in the basement so I had to vacate entirely.

That shit was crazy. It kinda smelled nice. But then it got all airborne as I "scratched it deep into the carpet fibers where the eggs and larva are" with a stiff broom. Then it turned on me, and it tried to kill me, too. Not cool, man. It gave me a mean cough. I'll probably be dead by morning, no worries.

So I'm up here while I wait for the Halabja massacre downstairs to settle out. (oh yeah, I went there.) I'll probably wait until I come home later to actually vacuum it.

Comments

Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…