chiggers are the devil’s pets and they should burn.

chiggerI will say a scalding hot bath and endless scratching does help ease their torture. As does benadryl and benadryl cream.

I was asleep before 10 last night, thanks to the little pink pills.

Honestly, a sandpaper massage sounds damn near heavenly! I haven’t had chigger bites like this in 20 years! Sure I get the occasional bite on my feet, but from torso-to-toe? No. Not since I was a kid.

People mistakenly believe that chiggers burrow into the skin and stay for days, but that’s not true. They actually inject enzymes into the skin that break down skin cells. The itching begins when the little fuckers have filled up on your skin cells and they leave you to take a nap. I wish it was a dirt nap. but no. Just a plain old nap like your fat uncle Morty who wears sweatpants to lunch on Thanksgiving day.

Anyway, I’m better today. I think the worst is past me. But…now my legs look like I have leprosy. If you see me on the streets in rags, just donate to my calamine lotion funds and walk away. Don’t stare too long at the constellation of scabs. They’ll start to scare you.

Later bitches! I have some scratching to do.


the worst thing ever to happen to me today

Okay look. I hate spiders. I do. They freak me the fuck out. Give me a snake any day over a creepy crawly hairy freaky big little spider.

Which brings me to the most horrible thing ever to happen to me. Well, most horrible thing ever to happen to me today.

I had gone grocery shopping. I was a good momma. I did my duty and even used my recycled shopping bags. I get home and Fishdog comes out to help me unload the groceries. Nice guy, right?

Don’t let those manners fool you. My husband is anything but nice. He is, in fact, responsible for the most horrible thing ever to happen to me today.

We had taken our first load of bags in. I stepped over to the mailbox. I open the mailbox and put my hand inside. No mail. I close the mailbox. Fishdog is standing next to me. He says, “Already got it and hey watch out for the spider that’s living in there.”

I didn’t hear him correctly. Right? Cuz that would mean he had let me stick my hand inside the mailbox inhabited by a living arachnid. So I glance over at the mailbox and this is what I saw:

not actual spider. In reality not actual size either. But whatever.

This big fucking nasty hairy leg creeped its way out of the mailbox. I went into shock. I started screaming like a big old baby. I ran into the house and called Fishdog some names that I know would make a marine blush.

IT WAS IN THERE WITH MY HAND. It touched me. I know it did.

As a matter of fact, it’s still on me. I can feel it.

I had a Ricky Bobby moment. I stripped down to my underwear and yelled, “Sarah Palin work your moose-huntin’ magic and shoot that hairy beast! If you do, I swear I’ll vote for you.”

How could my husband, the man who supposedly loves me, let me stick my hand in a veritable nest of tarantulas? Why didn’t he kill the spider before I ever knew it was there? I may never be able to check the mail again.

So then I demanded asked Fishdog, kill that fucking thing before I die a little more inside Would you kindly do away with that venomous and deadly creature?

Instead of killing it, he set it free.

Folks, this is not the PETA headquarters. We kill spiders here. I don’t care if they eat mosquitoes or lay golden eggs. If you’re a spider, you get killed in my house. That’s the understood rule. Or at least it has always been…until now.

He let the fucker go in the front yard. And I know it’s working its way back to the mailbox because it laid 1 million-billion-katrillion baby spider eggs in there and it wants to be present when they are born and begin their take over of Chez Francis.


And that folks, is the most horrible thing ever to happen to me. Today.

have things changed?

In the comments of my last post, Liz said:

I haven’t been to a high school football game since I was in high school. I too miss it, although my memories of the games include sneaking drinks in, chatting, walking off site to smoke, and checking out the 17 year old guys. Have things changed?

In a word? Nope.

But apparently I have.

It’s a bit strange being an adult at a high school function. I haven’t seen so much eye rolling and gum smacking in one place ever! I looked around for a 17 year old guy to make out with, but they were all already occupied in the with their own girlfriends. Darn.

The clicks are still around in full force. The junior high kids go off and nerd it up together. The senior high girls are all wearing too much make up and showing too much skin. Whatever happened to jeans and t-shirts at a football game? When did hoochie “skirts” become the in thing for a football game. Honey, when you sit down, we see your bidniz. K? And when you stumble down the bleachers and fall because you’ve had one too many “Cokes”, well, we can really see your bidniz. Put on a pair of pants. Hell, I’m not picky. Put on some panties! The kids don’t need an anatomy lesson just yet.

The senior high boys are all trying so hard to look nonchalant that they all end up looking constipated.

Pretty much, things haven’t changed at all.

Saturday was busy, busy for us. We got up and went to the park for a family run. Fishdog and Ian ran about 1.5 miles and Rader and I walked and ran a mile. We were getting ready to start our second trip around the track when a yellow jacket decided to attack. It got Rader on the arm, landed on his ear and I knocked it away. We ran toward the van, got about 10 ft. away from the original sting site, and that bitch yellow jacket caught up to Rader, landed on his shoulder blade and stung him again. Bitch had to die! Get my boy twice! Of course, you know how bad those things hurt and Rader did a good job of letting Saline County hear his wailing. After a while, he was okay. I was afraid he was gonna let the drama interfere with his soccer game that afternoon, but he manned up and managed to play a helluva game. The kids lost, but I was proud of the way Rader played.

Now the weekend is over, today we rest, hang out with some friends, and tomorrow we start all over. Soccer, cross-country, confirmation class, CYM Jr., working out…oh, and writing. Yeah. Gotta fit my job into my busy schedule!