annoyances

Last week I was a giant welt—with arms and legs; carrying a smart handbag. Living on Benadryl.

“I read there’s microscopic mosquitos who’ve shown up in the US for the first time,” my husband warned me after the fact.
He has a tendency to do that. To warn me about the shark sighting after my leg’s been bitten off. Stuff like that. Anyway…

“They’re so tiny you can’t see or hear ’em. You never even know they’re biting you until it’s too…” he could see the look on my face so he stopped himself. He knows that look means his death is imminent.

But how rude is that? Not my husband’s misguided whatever, I mean the mosquito! I count on the buzz to warn me.
“Incoming!” I’ll announce, which is code at our house to run for cover. Or to turn your head because a kiss is coming, which can make for a confusing couple of seconds, but that’s another story altogether.

All of this welty madness reminded me of this post from back in 2015 when mosquitos had the common decency to announce themselves. To at least make it a fair fight.

Fuck you microscopic mosquito. You suck! (See what I did there?)

Carry on,
xox

Thank you gluttonous mosquito for turning my Saturday night into your own private all-you-can-eat buffet.

We are lucky enough in So Cal to escape summers of swarming mosquitos and bugs in general; we traded them for earthquakes, epic traffic jams and no NFL football team, so yep, I still think we’re ahead.

There is only one of you, you persistent little shit, I can tell by your distinctive, stuttering, high-pitched whine (you might want to get that checked out). I have no idea how you got into the house seeing that it’s been as hot as the surface of Mars these past few weeks and no door or window has been open for more than the three seconds it takes to exit or enter our seventy-five degree, humidity-free sanctuary.

It was the doggie door wasn’t it?  Well, you’re resourceful, I’ll give you that.

I apologize for trying to kill you, swinging wildly in the dark every time you dive-bombed my left shoulder.
I’m a pacifist at heart. Really.
I carry spiders outside for crying out loud —because spiders have the good sense to hang out up on the ceiling and they leave my left shoulder alone. Besides, spiders are fellow artists, spinning their stunning webs all over the property. What beautiful thing have you created lately, besides this humongous welt on my back?

Still, I have to thank you. You taught me patience and you made me appreciate my little family.

First the patience…okay, well, that was about as long as that lasted.

I have exactly zero tolerance for a mosquito that has no self-control and can’t realize when it’s full. You served yourself at my shoulder four times, my knee (I don’t even want to know how you got under and out of the covers)—and my pinkie. Seriously?
You, my friend, need to practice some portion control!

After several hours of hearing your deranged buzz, and feeling you near my face as you flew your little scouting missions, I wanted to scream and pull out all of my hair! Instead, I got up, ran to pee (I didn’t want you to follow me, I was trying to avoid a fish in a barrel situation in the bathroom) and made sure my husband and the boxer-bitch were covered.

My husband is made from very rare and delicate French stock.
His skin is…different from my tough American horsehide—it just is.
It is void of pores and as soft as a baby’s ass, and when bitten it gets as hot, angry and red as Donald Trump’s face when asked the names of foreign Heads of State.

The boxer-bitch is simply too spoiled to bite.
Super cute, but ornery as hell—I know you wouldn’t bite a teenager for the same reasons, but I covered her nubby little butt anyway. As I found my way back to bed, flailing my arms around like a crazed scarecrow, trying to find you in the dark, I was filled with love and appreciation.

I kid you not.

I was thankful I wasn’t in the Amazon with bugs so prolific I was forced to sleep in a bed under a full mosquito net—or in South Africa avoiding deadly black mamba snakes on my way to pee. (With those guys you hit the ground dead in three minutes, so I know my last thought would be: Did I pull up my pants?) I was ever so thankful that I had a tube of Benadryl handy for the itching—and I was thankful there was only one of you. It made me feel better about my odds of hunting you down and killing you.

Thankfully, I fell asleep and we all survived the night.
Since I knew you were fat and happy, and we had formed a relationship, an uneasy truce of sorts—the next morning while it was a bracing 78 degrees at 6 am, I opened all the doors in the bedroom to facilitate your clean getaway.

Thank you and you’re welcome.

Carry on,
xox

Last week I was a giant welt—with arms and legs; carrying a smart handbag. Living on Benadryl.

“I read there’s microscopic mosquitos who’ve shown up in the US for the first time,” my husband warned me after the fact.
He has a tendency to do that. To warn me about the shark sighting after my leg’s been bitten off. Stuff like that. Anyway…

“They’re so tiny you can’t see or hear ’em. You never even know they’re biting you until it’s too…” he could see the look on my face so he stopped himself. He knows that look means his death is imminent.

But how rude is that? Not my husband’s misguided whatever, I mean the mosquito! I count on the buzz to warn me.
“Incoming!” I’ll announce, which is code at our house to run for cover. Or to turn your head because a kiss is coming, which can make for a confusing couple of seconds, but that’s another story altogether.

All of this welty madness reminded me of this post from back in 2015 when mosquitos had the common decency to announce themselves. To at least make it a fair fight.

Fuck you microscopic mosquito. You suck! (See what I did there?)

Carry on,
xox

Thank you gluttonous mosquito for turning my Saturday night into your own private all-you-can-eat buffet.

We are lucky enough in So Cal to escape summers of swarming mosquitos and bugs in general; we traded them for earthquakes, epic traffic jams and no NFL football team, so yep, I still think we’re ahead.

There is only one of you, you persistent little shit, I can tell by your distinctive, stuttering, high-pitched whine (you might want to get that checked out). I have no idea how you got into the house seeing that it’s been as hot as the surface of Mars these past few weeks and no door or window has been open for more than the three seconds it takes to exit or enter our seventy-five degree, humidity free sanctuary.

It was the doggie door wasn’t it?  Well, you’re resourceful, I’ll give you that.

I apologize for trying to kill you, swinging wildly in the dark every time you dive-bombed my left shoulder.
I’m a pacifist at heart. Really.
I carry spiders outside for crying out loud —because spiders have the good sense to hang out up on the ceiling and they leave my left shoulder alone. Besides, spiders are fellow artists, spinning their stunning webs all over the property. What beautiful thing have you created lately, besides this humongous welt on my back?

Still, I have to thank you. You taught me patience and you made me appreciate my little family.

First the patience…okay, well, that was about as long as that lasted.

I have exactly zero tolerance for a mosquito that has no self-control and can’t realize when it’s full. You served yourself at my shoulder four times, my knee (I don’t even want to know how you got under and out of the covers)—and my pinkie. Seriously?
You, my friend, need to practice some portion control!

After several hours of hearing your deranged buzz, and feeling you near my face as you flew your little scouting missions, I wanted to scream and pull out all of my hair! Instead, I got up, ran to pee (I didn’t want you to follow me, I was trying to avoid a fish in a barrel situation in the bathroom) and made sure my husband and the boxer-bitch were covered.

My husband is made from very rare and delicate French stock.
His skin is…different from my tough American horsehide—it just is.
It is void of pores and as soft as a baby’s ass, and when bitten it gets as hot, angry and red as Donald Trump’s face when asked the names of foreign Heads of State.

The boxer-bitch is simply too spoiled to bite.
Super cute, but ornery as hell—I know you wouldn’t bite a teenager for the same reasons, but I covered her nubby little butt anyway. As I found my way back to bed, flailing my arms around like a crazed scarecrow, trying to find you in the dark, I was filled with love and appreciation.

I kid you not.

I was thankful I wasn’t in the Amazon with bugs so prolific I was forced to sleep in a bed under a full mosquito net—or in South Africa avoiding deadly black mamba snakes on my way to pee. (With those guys you hit the ground dead in three minutes, so I know my last thought would be: Did I pull up my pants?) I was ever so thankful that I had a tube of Benadryl handy for the itching—and I was thankful there was only one of you. It made me feel better about my odds of hunting you down and killing you.

Thankfully, I fell asleep and we all survived the night.
Since I knew you were fat and happy, and we had formed a relationship, an uneasy truce of sorts—the next morning while it was a bracing 78 degrees at 6 am, I opened all the doors in the bedroom to facilitate your clean getaway.

Thank you and you’re welcome.

Carry on,
xox

“They say that if you put a frog into a pot of boiling water,
it will leap out right away to escape the danger.
But, if you put a frog in a kettle that is filled with water that is cool and pleasant, 
and then you gradually heat the kettle until it starts boiling, 
the frog will not become aware of the threat until it is too late.

The frog’s survival instincts are geared towards detecting sudden changes.”

For Valentine’s Day, above and beyond the sweet cards and thoughtful romantic gestures, I received one of the ultimate tokens of love a man can give. My husband tackled something that’s been lurking up at the top of my Honey Do List.
He unplugged my bathroom sink.

While his sink drains happily unencumbered, swiftly out to the Pacific Ocean, mine is so stopped up at this point that even brushing my teeth or a simple hand washing fills the basin and takes several minutes to empty. It has for five years.

As a result, there is always a thin layer of slimy, soapy scum that lines the inside of my sink every time I use it. Rinsing it out is a complete act of futility.
Let water drain. Swish clean water around. Wait for it to drain. Repeat. Again and again until you bang your forehead repeatedly on the porcelain — or the sink is clean — whichever comes first.

We’ve both attempted all the usual quick fixes for a slow drain, with gratifying, but alas, temporary results. The clog was beyond the P-trap, inside the wall. This called for desperate measures – hence my Valentines Day request. “Baby, will you PLEASE fix my sink?”

When the time came, he showed up with all the prerequisite tools of the trade, wrenches, a bucket and towel. My husband is nothing if not deliberate. He slowly and carefully loosened the joints, making sure that the bucket, resting on a beach towel, was set in position to catch any debris. When he had everything open to the wall he stuck his face, glasses at the tip of his nose, up to the open pipe in order to get a good look inside. I could tell by his determined walk back to retrieve MORE tools, that he was up against an extremely foul foe. There was one hell of a disgusting hair, gel, and toothpaste, mouthwash, hand cream, and orchid moss monster clog that inhabited that pipe.

When he returned, he was lookin’ kinda sexy, armed with gloves and a screwdriver looking thingy, I offered to run the garden hose inside the bathroom, “to flush the little fucker out to sea.”

He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “I’ve got this” was his dry reply.

Shit, shit, shit. Note to self: You know better than to stick your nose into a Honey Do List repair. Especially a Valentines Day Special. Back away. Slooowly.

After about half an hour, he emerged triumphant. “Go run the water” he said, following me back into the bathroom so he could see my reaction.
I washed my hands, and the thirty seconds that it used to take for the water to back up, came and went. I stared at the perfectly functioning drain – as if a miracle had occurred. “I can’t remember the last time the water drained so fast” (in other words exactly as it was designed to do.) I reached over and gave him a big hug. “I’m serious, this sink has been backed up for as long as I can remember”

He gathered his tools and as he walked away he shared this little nugget: “It’s just like the boiled frog.” It was so out of context it took me a minute.
“You’re right, it is!” I yelled down the hall.

God, who made the sexy, makeshift, philosophical plumber so smart? And why in the hell do I keep doing this to myself?
Remember my sad excuse for a smart-phone? It was so old and decrepit, so tired from all of the demands that I laid on it, that in the end all it could accomplish – was to be a phone. And it wasn’t even good at that. Wah,Wah. The End. New phone. Nirvana!

The boiled frog!
There’s no danger I need to escape – just annoying bullshit. I’m the frog, sitting happily in water where the boiling point is so gradual, slow, and subtle, it just becomes…an aggravating part of life. Now as I write this I’m taking a mental inventory of other boiling frogs that are causing me grief. I declare 2015 the end of BOILED FROGS!

What are your boiled frog situations? I know you have them. Confess.

Carry on,
xox