I woke up one morning last week scratching the bejeezus out of my ankles. I had this terrible sinking feeling that I could possibly have bed bugs. Great. So I stripped my bed, which I am really lazy about anyway, I mean, its just me… and vacuumed everything thoroughly. I then decided to take a peek at my cats. That’s where the problem is. Ugh. Poor babies. Two of the three have some fleas. UGH. How is this possible? They are strictly indoor cats????? Then it dawned on me…my raccoon problem. Somehow the constant scurrying across my roof and the chewing on the shingles was not enough inconvenience for me. They somehow brought fleas with them, and they have entered my house through my bedroom, and taken up residence on my cats and in my bed.
I decided I needed to give the two cats baths. Why oh why oh why does it have to be the two of my cats that have all of their claws?? I reluctantly started with the grumpiest of the two first. I figured I would get the most difficult one out of the way first. Sabian is my 8 ½ year grouchy old man. He will swipe you just for walking past him too slow or too fast, or breathe wrong, or just exist. If any animal could give you the evil eye, this one could.
I took everything in to the bathroom to get ready. I used my hall bath, as it is the only one with a tub. I hit the drain stopper and think I have it closed, but the water level is not rising. So I tug a little harder on the lever. It comes off in my hand. Ugh. Great. No more bubble baths at my house until I get a new tub. So I have to resort to bathing Satan’s lap-cat in the bathroom sink. I ready the towels, the soap, and prepare to have my eyes gouged out, or to have my wrists torn apart, fully prepared to bleed out on the bathroom floor. He resisted, crying and moaning, but once I was able to get all four feet in the water, he relaxed and let me get to work. Once he was rinsed, I held him in warm bath towels and he seemed relaxed and relieved, and not as evil as he normally is. Maybe I found his Kryptonite. I escaped without a single scratch.
Now it is Tinkerbell’s turn. As far as cats go, she is my sweetest. She flirts with all the boys, and follows me around like a puppy most days. It is rather annoying. She is also addicted to lunch meat. Needless to say, she is fat. She was not going to fit in the bathroom sink. I had to make a decision to do this in the kitchen sink. This is not ideal. I envisioned a wet crazed cat flying through the air, knocking various glassware off of otherwise unreachable shelves on the way out. I needed help on this one. So, I enlisted my son to fight side by side with me in this unpopular war. I had a brief vision of him wounded in a wheelchair like Lieutenant Dan or Ron Kovic, but resolved myself to the fact that it was ultimately his choice whether he stayed through the whole battle or not. He could still live a full and happy life, right?
I cleared away all breakable items in the kitchen and started to fill the sink. She knew something was up. I picked her up and she started to struggle. After some horrific cries that sounded like an ambulance or fire truck coming to a stop right in my driveway, she calmed for brief moments here and there, clawing at the shelf above and the counter top surrounding the sink. Surprisingly enough, my son and I escaped this skirmish without much more than wet shirts.
So, after lots of online research, and itching and scratching to the point of insanity, I found a couple of ways I wish to tackle this problem before going toxic. My brother, as an apartment maintenance tech, suggested Borax. He said I could find it at the Dollar Tree. So my son and I made a special trip in search of it there. Alas, to no avail. Knowing that I would not be able to find Borax at Aldi, my normal grocery store of choice, and where I had planned to make a sizeable grocery purchase on Sunday afternoon, I decided it was time to plan an adventure. This blog has been severely lacking in the post department as of late. I could also use the entertainment.
Once we returned home from church, lunch with my parents and the trip to the Dollar Tree, we lazily and reluctantly got ready for this trip to what might as well have been a dentist appointment for a root canal. I absolutely refuse to step foot in the Southport Wal-Mart, so we decided to go to the store at County Line and Emerson. I had my son make note of the items we needed so there would be no return trip. List in hand, we climbed in to the Jeep, and selected suitable music. I needed something that made me feel confident, tough, and ready to tackle what I was sure to be an ultimate fiasco, and a comedy of manners. We selected Alice in Chains, Greatest Hits. Queue “Man in the Box.”
Upon pulling in to this parking lot, which like all Wal-Mart parking lots is laid out like a corn maze, and feels like a live action Frogger, I felt myself gripping the steering wheel ever tighter, like I am about to crush it in my hands, or pull it off. I had already seen 9 out of 10 female shoppers and tag-a-longs wearing pajamas. It is 3pm on a Sunday afternoon. Those flannel pajama pants DO make your butt look big, and the teeny tiny t-shirt that looks like it was made for a toddler, and not a grown woman, is not hiding your muffin top very well, or as my son calls the really out of control ones, “muffin shops.”
So we find a space not too far out. Do I dare park here? It is next to a mid 80’s model Bronco, mustard yellow and rusted, with many side dents. I take a chance and park. I figure I run as much risk running over someone’s cart or Rascal, or wild kid if I drive around much more.
We walk in, select a cart, and get to work. First stop, pet food and flea powder. With the exception of people blocking the aisle while they debate over 9 Lives or Meow Mix, we mark this stuff off the list. On to groceries. Unsure with the layout of the store, I knew this was going to take some time. As this is the first Sunday after Thanksgiving, I fully expected the store to be a little crazier than usual.
We start in the back in dairy. We needed milk and cheese. Check. Butter. Sausage. Toilet Paper, Borax (yes! In the laundry aisle, duh!) Sugar, canned veggies, various meats, fresh veggies and fruit, bread and peanut butter. We met very little resistance in each aisle. Most of the traffic jams were due to the fact that every south side mother must have felt the need to drag her 4 kids, her husband, and her mother to Wal-Mart for quality family time before the Colts game. So while the kids complained and begged, the husbands leaned against the shelves with great discomfort in their whole being, rolling their eyes like a teenage girl whose mother just told them to clean their room. This was magnified, I am quite positive, by the outdated liquor laws in Indiana prohibiting the sale of alcohol on Sunday at retailers. I am sure the hubby would have been pacified by a 36 pack of PBR sitting in the cart, and would have helped complete the shopping list in record time.
Things were going fairly well, and we had escaped much difficulty in getting through the aisles and finding all of the items we needed. About half way through the store, I hear this woman yelling from at least two aisles away. Every expletive known to me, and a few others I had not heard before (WHAT????!!!???) came out of her mouth. I was wondering if I should occupy my son's ears with some idle conversation to distract him, or ask him if he knew what that word was that she just screamed. Trying to tune it out, I keep concentrating on my task at hand. But I was unable to do so. I imagined she was yelling at her husband for some reason, out of a sugar/carb crashing post-Thanksgiving withdrawal, or some deep seated family issue brought to the surface by the holidays. Upon turning the corner and seeing her in the next aisle I was shocked. She had 3 kids under the age of 6 in tow, and apparently, one of them opened a package and decided to eat whatever it was. I have heard drunken bar fights tamer than this woman’s rant. Her husband tried to quiet her. He was unsuccessful. So we had to endure this so-called mother calling her 4 year old every name in the book and chastising her for opening the cookies and sneaking one. And yes, she was wearing plaid flannel pajama pants. Though, they did not have any writing on the butt, like “Juicy” or “Sweet.” I was really hoping to spin around in a whirlwind and emerge as Wonder Woman and kick this woman’s butt. Knowing I had left my armbands in the car, I opted out.
We hurried through the next few aisles just to escape the uneasiness I was feeling. Could I possibly be Jennifer Walters, aka She-Hulk? Only Marvel comics fans will understand this reference I guess. But I was starting to feel the anger well up inside, that could very well have transformed me in to a green skinned super hero. I’m sure the kids would have found this to be wicked cool. I kept my emotions under control. I did not want to be on the 6 o’clock news.
So we rushed through the produce section, and subsequently forgot the veggies I needed to make stir fry. Ugh. Of course I did not realize this until we were home putting everything away. We made it through the checkout, as I cringed with every half filled plastic bag that I placed in my cart. “That’s going in a land fill.” I thought to myself. We came in just under budget, which at the time I thought was awesome. The forgotten veggies would have put us right on target, so I was pleased, I guess.
We emptied all 28 plastic bags in to the back of the Jeep. My son returned the cart to the corral. No door dings. Anger in check. Now to escape the parking space and hope not to run over anyone. Thankfully, I can report, we escaped unscathed. However, I will not be planning another trip like that for some time to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment