Punch, Squash and Slogans

Our labby love is home, less one tooth. Very doped up. Whenever she sits, she starts weaving and then leaning until she has to lay down.

Drunk doggie.

It wasn't really the lack of dental care on our part. More her habit of eating sticks. She cracked her tooth and that's how the infection started.

While she was in surgery, I spent the day...squashing bugs.

For hours.

The lesson? Following a low carb diet means you really shouldn't hang onto a box of pasta for four years.

Because it breeds.

Bugs.

Lots and lots of bugs.

That literally came out of the woodwork after our first warm Spring day. I think they had an orgy in my cupboard.

Yes, my kitchen. Den if insect iniquity.

Ha. I should get a T-shirt made up.

It was gross, but manageable. I tried not to think about the hot buggy sex that must've taken place between boxes of Jell-O.

The hubby brought in the blow torch (his patented bug killing system) despite my concern we would die in a house fire. Somehow, he was able to torch the (flammable!) wood on the cupboards in a way that killed the bugs hiding in crevices without igniting a bonfire.

His T-shirt would read: I kill bugs with a blow torch. Or maybe My blow torch is better than your fly swatter.

The kitchen is squeaky clean now. With a lingering scent of 409 mixed with high octane flames*. I'm punch drunk on lack of sleep and the fumes aren't helping.

It was a very weird day yesterday. I am glad it is over.

On deck today. Endo appointment.


*No I don't think this is a particularly good combination but the hubby is a little...nuts about this kind of stuff. He once attacked our Christmas tree with a can of Raid in the living room and I had to spend the weekend in our bedroom due to the fumes.