Welcome To My Nightmare.

I go through brief periods where I do a lot of in-the-moment blogging which pushes the other things that I meant to talk about onto the back burner. Perhaps if I had twelve pairs of hands, maybe I could simultaneously type all of the stories that run through my head concurrently.

Here are a few of the stories I'm currently formulating:

I have a funny picture I want to post for your amusement, but it's not time-sensitive so I'm saving it for a slow news day.

Kevin and I recently conducted a very scientific experiment, and I feel obligated to share the results.

I have a rant I'm working on. Or two. One is one of those everyday things that moms deal with, another's about bra shopping.

I should also tell you of my new business venture and how I decided to venture into it.

And I have GOT to find the right way to publicly proclaim Pam's awesomeness. Seriously, the magnatude of her coolness challenges the lexophile in me.

Oh, and I should draw alla y'all's attention to Kevin's blog today, and to my comment in response. I would really love a little support for my side of the argument, if you agree.


But all of these must be tabled temporarily because today I'm writing about what a fucking dumbass I am. Because as much as I make fun of other people on my blog, you have to agree, I make fun of myself even more.

If you followed the above link to Kev's blog, you probably saw that The Racers came over to hang out last night. The picture shows the AFTER pic of the patio. The Racers were coming over for beverages and it was a beautiful evening, so we put a fire in the fire pit and sat out drinking for a few hours.

You know how sometimes when you're cleaning, you kinda have to make the mess worse before you can make it better? That was the entire theme of yesterday. Everything I did turned uncovered something else that needed doing. I raked up leaves and found earthworms as big around as my pinky finger. Worms really don't bother me because I know they're not going to sting me or bite me or hurt me, so I just move them to the grass and watch them wiggle away.

While I was raking, I picked up an icky old outside doormat that had been untouched all winter. I picked it up to throw it away in the garage, and when I came back I saw this:



Yes, I had disturbed a nest of flying ants. I sprayed the ants, washed them off the house with the hose, and ten minutes later, a second swarm, with as many members as the first, came out too. I sprayed them as well, leaving hundreds of little winged carcasses stuck to the patio. It was fuckin disgusting.

I lamented on Facebook that this day could not be over soon enough.

I also told my FB BFF's about the bird that got stuck in my garage.



Birds freak my ass OUT. Especially when I've just experienced bugs in Hitchcockian numbers. I'm always afraid they're gonna swoop down and rip out a vein in my neck, and isn't that all I fuckin need. Why couldn't he go out on the patio and have his lil ol' self a snack?

I apparently scared the shit out of him when I pressed the button on the garage door opener.




So I thought that between the flying ants and the bird that freaked me out and pooped on my garage door, I was having a supercrappy day. Until one of my aforementioned FB friends (whom I met through Kevin, come to think of it), informed me that I was actually dealing not with flying ants, but with TERMITES.

You probably knew that as soon as I said Flying Ants, didn't you? I feel like such a moron.

And instantly my day went from supercrappy to UltraMegaSuperDuperDeluxeCrappy.

The difference between Ultra, Super, Mega, Extra, and Ultimate is actually a sub-rant of my bra rant. It's a rant within a rant, but you bitches'll have to wait.

Flying ants = TERMITES. Duh.

So just for fun I peeled off a little of that hideous wallpaper in the kitchen that I wanted to get rid of anyway, and found THIS.



Isn't that the ugliest wallpaper ever??

And THIS.



And I just wanted to puke.

So the rest of my day was spent trying to determine whether or not the previous owners of our house had any sort of termite treatment previously. I dug through all our paperwork looking for receipts or contracts or disclosures in our contract. All I could find was an inspection report that we had done before we bought the house that indicated past damage but no active colonies at the time. That wasn't going to help.

I called and left a message for the realtor who sold us the house, because I was pretty sure I vaguely remembered there being some sort of termite clause from the sellers.

Finally I said Fuck it, and I called the nice people at Bugeaters and basically unloaded the highlights of the last 24 hours. I forwarded the guy on the phone the picture of the swarm, hoping he'd say "Flying Ants, Ma'am. Ya got Flying Ants...", but I was not so lucky. He said the T-word (ha, you thought TWAT, didn't you?!!?). TERMITES.

Ed, the Bugeater guy, was at my door a few hours later, and I showed him the termite graveyard on the patio. I showed him the wall in the kitchen. He walked with me all around the outside of the house and then inside to the basement. He moved the tiles in the drop ceiling and told me I had a dead mouse in there. Mice are... just... I can't... they're just so... SO... HORRIBLE.



Yeah, those are my Rock Band drums. My band's name is Post-Coital Waffles, I'm sure you're dying to know. No, wait - that's my Guitar Hero band name.

Anyway, by the time Ed was done showing me all the creepy crawlies in and around my house, I wanted to take a shower with bleach and a Brillo pad and scrub my skin raw until it stopped itching. And then he handed me the estimate.

You don't even want to know.