Queen of the Savages

As evidenced below, I have a problem performing simple household tasks.  The Southerner asked me to change a lightbulb in our living room and this is what happened.

I’d like to think it’s because changing lightbulbs is beneath me.  That I’m a genius, incapable of boiling water because, by god, my brain is distracted with more important issues–like world peace.    Sadly, this is not true.  I’m just really bad at simple motor-skill related tasks.  As a teenager, the one time my dad asked me to mow the lawn I broke the lawnmower in the span of five minutes.    The Southerner likes to refer to this problem as my lack of “spatial awareness.”  I prefer to refer to it as “I never have to change another lightbulb or mow the lawn again.”

The year of freak medical maladies and parasitic insect-invasions truly reached its pinnacle this weekend, friends. The Southerner’s sister drove down from North Carolina to help us finish some last-minute wedding projects (Smore’s kits, anyone?) and visit St. Pete for the first time  (a.k.a. school us on how to party like a 21 year-old).  All of us were sitting around Sunday night watching the awesome new HBO show, The Newsroom when my future sis-in-law turned to me and said, “Umm, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I just saw a rat run through your kitchen.” “WHHHHAAAATTT? Was it big?” “I don’t know.  Maybe, about this big.”

And, then I saw it…  This huge, grey, beady-looking rat run right under my oven.   The appropriate obscenity has not yet been invented to describe how I felt about seeing that rat running under my oven. Mother-Fuckuckkakaw?

So, yeah, there’s a rat in our kitchen.  No biggie.  I mean I used to have pet rats as a teenager, right? Except, I’m not a teenager anymore and rats are gross.  Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you view the proverbial glass), our house also has termites so the termite-guys are coming to bomb it in the next few weeks and I’m fairly certain that all that toxic gas will take care of our little rat issue.

By now, you may be starting to wonder about the cleanliness of our house. I totally get it.  You think we’re slobs. How could you not, what with all the fleas, termites, and RATS running around our house.  Except, we (and by “we”, I mean “me”) are total clean-freaks. I swear.  Yes, the Southerner does have a little problem with falling asleep with a spoonful of peanut-butter in his mouth (no joke) from time to time. But, the minute I get over the shock of thinking that he shit on his own pillow-case, those sheets get washed on heavy-duty cycle.  Which is normally just reserved for blue jeans and skid marks.  See, clean?

As far as I’m concerned, all signs point toward “time to move into another house.” Really, the signs should have been glaringly obvious after the great flea invasion of 2012. But, seriously, I draw the line at rats.

The Southerner started complaining about fleas in our house about a week ago.  I didn’t pay much attention to him since that’s kind of what I do when he complains about things that don’t affect me. Just because he’s a flea magnet doesn’t mean we had an actual problem, right?  Until this weekend.  Every time we went out to the backyard, even for a few seconds, we returned covered in FLEAS.  FLEAS.  I hate them.  They’re parasites. Blood-sucking scum of the earth. While driving to school this morning, I almost swerved off the side of the road when I noticed a flea gorging itself on my inner arm.  I am walking around with fleas on me. That is just not attractive.  In fact, that is probably the exact opposite of attractive.

Yesterday, in an attempt to take back our house, the Southerner bought outdoor and indoor flea killers, while I vacuumed and cleaned every square inch of exposed living space.  We also spent the better part of the day playing a game that involved seeing how many fleas we could catch and successfully drown in a cup of water while yelling things like, “I got you, you mother-fucker!” and “Drown, bitch, drown!”  Aren’t you glad we took one another off the dating market?

We don’t have pets, unless you count the snake that lives in a bush in our yard and the zillions of outdoor lizards that occasionally make their way indoors, so I can’t explain our flea phenomenon.  Except to say that South Florida is a breeding ground for insects and crazy-ass wildlife, including things like bobcats.  A girl in my class has a bobcat that likes to hang out in her backyard.  I would not be cool with this.  As it stands, the snake and I are barely managing to maintain a healthy, neighborlyish relationship built on the understanding that as long as he keeps to his side of the yard, I will not have the Southerner hit him over the head with a shovel.

South Florida is also a wonderful place to grow wildlife, and this weekend my cherry tomatoes started to ripen.  Except, every time I wanted to eat one, I had to go running outside at full speed, snatch one really quick, turn around, and run back in before the fleas attacked me.