Tag Archives: bugs

Karma is with the bride.

Remember that post I wrote a few days ago…you know, about how I’m broke because of wedding season? Yeah, well all the brides-to-be must have gotten together and plotted a scheme against my life because I was complaining. But before I begin the rant on my latest failures…the Sex and The City episode I was referring to was “A Woman’s Right to Shoes.” Coincidentally, when I got home Tuesday night, that was the episode I had reached in my 3-week marathon of Sex and the City dvds.

The best part of the episode is when Carrie calls Kiera, leaves her a message saying “I’m getting married…to myself. And I’m registered an Monolo Blahnik,” and then she gets the shoes (as a wedding gift) from Kiera.

I need to do that.

Anyway, late last week I was doing the usual cleaning of the apartment, when I noticed a cluster of tiny black bugs near my kitchen sink. I figured they came from the drain, so I bleached my sink and drain, and called it a day. Well, that is until I went into my bathroom to brush my teeth and saw another cluster of little black bugs.

Weird.

The next day, when I got home from work, I spotted a few more…not near any sink. One on the wall, one on my couch. I was utterly disgusted, so I got out my trusty vacuum, put the tiniest attachment on it, and proceeded to vacuum my entire place…every molding, every corner, even up to the ceiling.

I was bug-free. Or so I thought.

I had been doing some major Googling, trying to figure out what these little beasts were—they were a little bigger than a flee, body of a beetle, smaller than an ant, didn’t fly. However, many pictures and descriptions I found didn’t help. I searched my flours and pastas for weavals, and found nothing, I searched my mattress for bed bugs, again, nothing.

Tuesday night, I had just wrapped up my nightly routine in the bathroom, waltzed into my bedroom, to see a little black bitch on my clean white sheets.

Oh no he didn’t.

I had had enough. I refused to live in a garden. So I whipped open my computer again, to try and find the answers. A few scrolls down, and I saw a suggestion—bugs that eat cat food. Aha!

So I marched into my kitchen, and flung open my cat cabinet. Eh, saw a few bugs, nothing to satisfy this as the source. The article said to store cat food in air tight containers. So, I found some tupperware for the time being, and prepared to pour. Starting with a box of Friskies, I poured.

What came out of that box was quite possibly the sickest thing I’ve seen in my life. Every single morsel of food was half eaten…and the bugs were there. Everywhere.

I cried.

I cried because it was gross. I cried because I hate bugs. I cried because my cat had been eating bug food and I failed to notice. When I looked in his dish, sure enough, bug city. I was a shitty mom.

I composed myself, grabbed a trash bag, and started to throw everything away—the box of Friskies, any cat treats, even a new bag of Iams (i checked it, to find it oddly bug-free, but I didn’t want to take any chances). I emptied my cats dishes and put everything in the dishwasher. My kitty was left with a hungry belly for the night.

When I got on the Friskies website, I saw many complaints of the same thing. Apparently, I purchased a box of Friskies that was infested, and I was being punished for it.

I could hardly sleep that night, unable to get the image of the bugs out of my head, worried about my cat’s health, and overall just feeling disgusting. At lunch yesterday, I made a trip to the pet store and bought all fresh catfood (I opened everything before I bought it, inspecting for bugs) and it wasn’t Friskies.

I also purchased a large collection of air tight containers. Now, all my catfood, flours, pastas, sugars, etc are stored away, safe and sound.

On my drive home from work last night, I got an e-mail from Jesus Belt, saying the magazine was cutting back on freelancers.

Just what I needed to hear.

When I got home, I saw a few straggling bugs, which I expected. I’m still waiting for the rest of the crop to die of hunger. However, I dragged myself around the kitchen, cleaning once again. I was exhausted of my recent life. I was upset about losing freelance money. And I was tired of cleaning up bugs.

So here I am. Stricken my karma. Because I’m a big, single, bitch. Where’s The Bieb when I need him?

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Growing up is hard to do when you’re a single mother of 4.

Cheerio old chaps! Yesterday I started hysterically crying and kicked all the blankets off of my bed in a fit because I realized that in less than two weeks my adult life, as we know it, begins.  Most of my friends, including Lucky, have been out in the real world for a few years now, god bless them all.

I, on the other hand took not 1 extra year but 2 extra years to finish college.  I’m every guy’s dream girl. I am days away from maybe being a certified financial planner (fingers crossed I passed the test.) That’s not what I want to do though, I hate my life. Anyone wanna hire me? Please? Gizzy, CFP wants to work for YOU!

It really started to hit me the other day when I went to my dad’s humble abode so he could fix the hoopty. He says to me, “Hey Gizzy, when you’re not doing anything during the days you could paint that room.” As he points to the room that is at least a million square feet and covered in choo-choo train wallpaper.  I snapped back that I would be spending my days looking for jobs so his train room can suck it.

Then, I started to think about how depressing my life is going to be.  Right now, my day consists of working my 9ish to 5’er job at a prominent investment firm, (They don’t want to hire me full time, dicks.  Well, I don’t want to work there full time, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.) and then going out every night and getting belligerently drunk while on a hunt for HOTTIE or an equivalent match with Bri and acts gay but says he’s straight friend Adam.

But once I move home… the whole story changes.  It’s like I go from a fun spunky 20 something to 45 year old mom pants.  I’m going to be sitting on the back porch with my dad and step-mom sipping vino in our matching rocking chairs while we watch the horses graze the pasture and wait for our bacon grease from the morning to harden. Annd… that’s it.  That’s all I’ll be doing. Every. Single. Day.

Unless of course I decide to drive to my mom’s house, where I can watch i-Carly and play barbies till the cows come home with my 6 year old sister.  It’s what every 25 year old single girl that is fresh out the college scene is looking for in order to have a fulfilling life.

Other Things Turning into Mom Pants Made Me Realize:

-That I should invest in every color of high wasted bongo pants, so I can look the part.

-Instead of saving my monies to buy a home for my unforeseeable family, I’m going to make it my engagement ring fund. Since I’ll be purchasing one for myself before any man does.

-That I need to start using phrases when I answer the phone like, “Yello!” and “Talk to me…” to give myself more character.  It also wouldn’t hurt if I made my voicemail, “Hello?*long pause* Ok, I’m not really here AHAHA gotcha! Leave a message at the beep.”

-I need to get a wallet that has picture holders, so that I have a place to put all the photos of my children. When I see old friends at the grocery or the dollar store I need them to be easily accessible.

-I need to get pictures of some children.

-Found some. I need to sit down with my lawyer and plan out my will.  The hoopty will go to my oldest son – Bobby

My girl, Xiofeng, will get my old blackberry, my collection of douchearoo’s douchey emails, and what’s left of my liver.

And the twinsies, T’Sha’n and Frieda, can have my sunscreen, my cash, my rotisserie, and my bed

(UPDATE: The rotisserie goes to Lucky, as well as my high school diaries, my little black book, and my list of guys who are rumored to be tainted by the STID!  It’s actually std, but when I say it I say STID! Now you know for next time.)

– I need to make sure to pay the $1 to USPS to have my mail forwarded to hell. C/o Lucifer.

-Look into buying every color of the rainbow in lipliner. The 8o’s are back.  And the 90’s, they’re next. And in a decade when it happens and I am 55 and mom pants you best believe I’ll be looking good.

-That I lay out my collection of coozies and decide which is may favorite so that I am sure to always have it keeping my coors light ice cold.

-That since making this list of realizations I have realized that I am not only going to be 45 and mom pants; but white trash, 45, and mom pants.

-That I might not be able to throw back shots like I used to back in college, so I should always be sure to bring enough wine spritzers to parties to keep me as tipsy as the kids.

-That if I am going to be 45, a single mother of 4, and engaged to myself I should learn how to cook something other than tgi fridays mozzerella cheese sticks and spaghettios.

-That this list has gotten way out of control, and what I really need to do instead of blogging about how I’m going to be on welfare, is look for jobs in cool places that will allow me to send Bobby, Xiofeng, Frieda, and T’Sha’n to private school.

-Ok, I’ll do that now.

(2ND UPDATE: Right after I did the first update where I wrote Lucky into my will of misfortune, I felt something in my underwear scratching my butt. So I stuck my hand down there and pulled out the mystery butt scratcher.  It was a starburst wrapper.  I can’t tell you the last time I had or have even seen a starburst.  The time. Is 4:13 a.m. And I am utterly disgusted/confused.)

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