We have nits in our house or rather, on our heads. My husband has missed out, lucky bugger, and I’m close to shaving my hair off. I’ve tried scratching my scalp off my skull, but the nits don’t seem to care. Small lad is worried that I’m going to cut his hair off, which he’s been growing for over a year now, and I’m tempted only to stop my own population of the ugly suckers.
We’ve tried pesticide, eucalyptus oil, tea tree oil and silicone. We’ve wrapped our heads in plastic wrap. Of all the things I never expected to think when composing a shopping list, it was “we’re running out of Glad because we keep wrapping our heads in it” that won the prize. It was closely followed by, “must buy more dental floss to clean out the nit combs”. Third place went to, “I wonder if I could find a mini-vise to hold the combs in while I floss them”.
Of course if I did cut my hair off it would have to be a hatchet job. Most hairdressers won’t touch nit-stuffed clientele with a 10-foot stick covered in cholera (just on the nudging end). After weeks of intermittent somebody-just-cracked-an-egg-over-my-skull feeling of the tiny turds* with legs crawling around, I'm ready to brave the cholera. It should beat out the raving insanity.
The shopping list for tomorrow includes (aside from plastic wrap and dental floss) more nit-busting (yeah, right) goodies and bacon. If I’m going to have an itchy uncomfortable head, I deserve bacon. Small lad deserves bacon, husbandly deserves bacon; I decree bacon for everybody.
*I don’t think that would be a good name for a biscuit. And now I wonder if it was the working title of those Nerd lolly things, since they do look like tiny turds.
I’m a little bit concerned Victoria (the state, not a random person called Victoria whom I clearly know well and assume you do too) knows something it’s not telling the rest of us. On their number plates they have “Stay Alert Stay Alive” - which means they’re ready for the zombie apocalypse if nothing else. Will you clue us in if you know it’s coming, or will it be “et tu, Victoria”?
I currently have an anxiety about drinking a glass of water by the side of my bed in the middle of the night. (And I think I just won the prize for completely random.) I’ve been reading Agatha Christie, and have decided to eschew any sort of beverage by the bedside: someone might replace my water with acid or put atropine in it. I’m also never eating hundreds and thousands again (they might have arsenic in them), unless someone wants to make me some fairy bread. Fairy bread! It’s four-sucky-something in the morning and suddenly I want fairy bread!
At least if you drop fairy bread on the floor it doesn’t take four tries to get rid of the sticky bits. Imagine fancy cordial, a kitchen floor, and dinner about to go on the table. Quick wipe up, then with sponge, and she’ll be apples. Let’s eat dinner. Bollocks. Next time, I’m taking off and nuking the site from orbit.
It’s now five-sucky-something in the morning and my work is cheerfully spinning. I assume cheerfully since ascribing happy faces to red cells is much nicer than imagining them with teeth. There’s probably a story in that idea somewhere.
I’m reduced to staring blankly out of the window. That blank where your brain is dead, your eyes are heavy, and people can talk to you, but your replies are coming from a damn long way away. Long enough away that by the time you start talking back, the other person has left or is prodding you with a stick. Because they were raised by wolves.
The sun is up now. I conked out for a little while earlier, and for some reason this particular entry has been soothing, because the dream population were singing and/or bopping along to a soundtrack. We are all floating in a choral sea. I’d better shut this down for now and tidy things up. Though most of my work is done…it really wouldn’t do to leave an unclean deck.
