Burning Down the House...

We came home from our camping trip to a house full of fleas.  Apparently the sand we had delivered for the playset was loaded with them and our dogs brought them inside.  I've never had to deal with fleas before so naturally, I calmly assessed the situation, did some research on flea abatement, and controlled the problem.

Well, that's the way I say it went.  Chris describes it a bit differently.  He said I went a little crazy.

I started off by screaming.

That's always my first line of defense against home invaders, small or large.

Then, I sent Cash to my mother's to protect him - from me or the fleas, I can't be sure.  From here, well, it gets a little foggy... maybe because I set off 16 flea bombs in the house.    When they say one per room, they mean it.  You shouldn't put two... cough... or three... in one room.  Shouldn't.  That doesn't mean I didn't.

Every sheet, towel, comforter, and bit of clothing was drowned in a piping hot wash.  My house has never been so Tide fresh.

I bought two industrial bags of diatomaceous earth and we blanketed the carpets.  Chris donned his construction gas mask and ran around the house pretending a nuclear bomb hit.

Funny guy.

Real funny.


I vacuumed.

And vacuumed.

And vacuumed.

For DAYS.

As Chris watched me remove yet another vacuum cleaner bag, put in a plastic trash bag, and duct tape the top closed, he said, "I'd hate to see what you'd do with bedbugs.  You'd probably burn down the house."

I looked at him seriously and said, "That's an option?"




There are no more fleas in the house.  OK, sure, the chemicals caused me to sprout a third arm and there is now a cancerous growth on my leg, but the fleas are gone.

I win.