They’ve Returned, and They’ve Brought Friends. Bring on the OCD.

Remember when I was all like “Fuck, we have fleas” and then I was like, “FUCK–I’m broke from buying flea medications, fresh laundry and paying off the dog groomer–but we’re flea-free!” ?

Yeah. No.

Yesterday I came home from my mom’s (who had a great trip and brought me back a Hercules vase from Greece!) plopped down on the couch with Happy–rolled him over to pet his tummy–and openly wept as I saw a flea skitter around his fur.

Oh god do I HATE THIS.

I was immediately tempted to go back into KILL EVERYTHING WITH FIRE mode and start insecticiding every inch of my house while scrubbing my poodle raw with Hartz.

But I just couldn’t fathom the idea of literally doing that day all over again. Like, I couldn’t handle it.

So I called my exterminator and the vet and they both told me the same thing: shit sucks, but there’s really nothing to be done.

When fleas invade, they’re in it to win it. They’re going to kill everything you love. They’re going to make you panic every time your black nail polish flakes off and lands besides you on the tile. And worse still–if I really wanted to get chemical on this situation I was going to have to pay $200 to have all the surfaces in my house sprayed and bombed with the most toxic of chemicals.


And I was like…no. I can’t even.

I applied another round of flea medication to Happy, and then went to the gym to try and clear up some of my OCD energy. Then I went to Whole Foods and loaded up on Tea Tree Oil. And I’ve just been pouring Borax on all the fabric surfaces and vacuuming non-stop since.

The whole situation is miserable. I’m miserable. R.J’s miserable. And poor, poor Happy. He win’s the award for ultimate misery.

The world’s most pampered, most loved poodle can no longer curl up with me on the couch or in bed for fear of fleas. So R.J and I have set up camp for him in our bathroom with his dog bed and a baby gate so he’s not “locked in.”

But he barks and cries for a good hour each night while we wait for him to fall asleep. Jesus, it’s so miserable.

I mean, maybe this wouldn’t be such a big deal if I regular fostered golden retrievers, or lives in the country, or was a hoarder. But I legit vacuum every day–and I do laundry like it’s ┬álisted as a recreational activity.

I clean the house like crazy before people come over. I’m just…like that. So now I feel like people are going to think I’m unclean. Like I’m some kind of heathen who doesn’t fold her hand towels. Like I don’t have my socks and bras and underwear separated into different drawers. I PROMISE THIS ISN’T REPRESENTATIVE OF MY STANDARDS.





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