Adam had em.
Very short horror story:
Goblin and Gremlin had fleas.
It’s totally unfair, you know. They’re indoor cats.
Instead of going to work today, I woke up bright and early at 7 (I swear I don’t know how other folks get up so early– I’ve heard some people ENJOY it) and drove to the vet. All three of us were miserable. G. & G. were mraowing so loud I couldn’t hear NPR playing Shostakovich. (Happy birthday, Dmitri!)
Car rides with the girls always involve kitty pee, kitty poo, and a very tense driver. Why oh why didn’t I make the Kennedy-Rockefeller chauffeur do it?
While the girls were getting their flea dips, I sprinkled the carpet with flee-b-gon and set off a flea bomb. Two hours later, after the stuff had done its work, I came home and started cleaning. You’ve got to vaccuum up the stuff really well because it’s poisonous to kitties as well as fleas. Then I scrubbed the kitchen and the bathroom to cleanse them of lingering flea bomb junk.
Let’s be clear, here: I hate cleaning. I am lousy at things domestic. I can’t cook. I clean only when it is desperately, desperately necessary. I kill houseplants. I have all the interior decorating instinct of your common snow shovel. I am the opposite of a domestic goddess. I am the domestic anti-christ.
But actually it’s good that the flea poison forced my hand. I’ve got to start cleaning this place for when I move out.
I toyed with the idea of hiring someone to clean the apartment for me, despite having read Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickle and Dimed. Ehrenreich’s thesis, essentially, is that people who hire cleaners are maggots. She’s more eloquent than that, but there’s your basic gist. She makes a good case for it, too. You walk away from the book thinking that maid service is no better than slave labor, and that anyone lazy enough to hire a maid is a facist bourgeois pig.
Still though, I thought about it, until I realized that I’m about to be very, very broke. There was the kitty bill today. There’s the price of the U-Haul. And dear heavens, there’s the price of the labor. $89 an hour is the cheapest I could find for the Wilhelmsplatz end of things, and absolutely no one seems to be available in Franklin. I know it’s a small town, but Christ.
And my first paycheck from Wilhelmsplatz won’t come till the 14th of November. I’ve hit the cycle in exactly the wrong place: I’ll have worked for nearly a month before I get some cash. When you consider that, plus the money I’m about to lay down… Well. I won’t be hiring any cleaning services. Only fascist bourgeois pigs do that.
Enter Crystal. Crystal’s one of my co-workers, perfectly young and healthy and capable of moving, but I didn’t want to ask her for help because she’s got a young kid. (It is common knowledge that I don’t like children, but Marlee’s pretty cool for a 4-year-old. She’s one of those obnoxiously attractive blonde little kids and she shows every sign of being personable and intelligent.) But Crystal thinks she can rustle up some friends to help for less than $89/hour.
If anything Crystal should be mad at me, cuz with me abandoning ship and all, she’s just going to have more work to do at the liberry. But she offered, so I think my worries are taken care of.
Crystal is totally on my Best Person du Jour list. I completely renounce everything I said on talk radio about her being a tramp and a whore. (Kidding, Crystal, kidding.)
And now I am going to settle down to an itch-free, flea-free evening after my hard day of not being at work.