Alright, facts first: I knew about the mosquitos here. Let's get that part straight. I know that I am the human equivalent of a delicious chocolate cake to the entire insect world. I always have been. I accepted long ago that only a near fatal dousing of insect repellant each and every time I exit the house will prevent me from being covered. It will not prevent them from biting, but it will lessen it.
So when I began my epic battle with the yard, I took precautions.
The goal: De-strangle my trees (about ten) and the rock walls from the english ivy. (English ivy is like kudzu for those who haven't dealt with it before)
I suited up. Bright pink galoshes. Weedeater. Safety glasses. Big thick blue rubber gloves. Application of entire bottle of lethal bug spray. I hacked. I pulled. I ripped that shit down. I freed an entire tree and the majority of the rock walls.
I was triumphant! I showed that yard who's boss! Or so I thought. But it appears, that my yard doesn't play fair. The next morning, an unmistakeable huge patch of poison oak, or poison sumac, or poison ivy has appeared on my leg.
I spend the day plotting to fire bomb the yard in retaliation, and scratching. And getting yelled at by Mark for scratching.
Next morning. Nearly ONE HUNDRED bright red dots. All around the poison oak and around the back of my knee and all over the back of the other leg and up my arms and just everywhere. It itches like, well, I can't actually imagine anything else bad enough to compare it to. So take my word for it, it was bad. B-A-D. Like christening on Christmas bad. And while I must admit it was well played by the yard for tapping into my serious susceptibility to the stuff, I'm a complete mess. I look like a plague victim.
Fast forward eight hours. Around 5pm, I find a FLEA! And suddenly, it all clicks into place. I've laid it out below so you can follow along:
- I treated the dogs when we got here- one month treatment
- We didn't know the house had fleas from the evil cats the previous owners left inside
- The medicine wore off last week, and the dogs got infested
- I noticed the dogs scratching, and treated them the same day I attacked the yard
- That night Kora slept curled by my legs, against the back of my legs
Here's what I didn't know. If you treat your animals, and there's an infestation- the fleas will jump species to survive. When the dogs became toxic so they jumped to the humans.
Let's insert Carolyne's question now: "Wait, so is Mark covered too?"
Oh, my friends! I'm SO glad you asked.
Mark has not a single spot. No poison oak. No flea bites. Not even a mosquito bite. And he hasn't been using bug spray.
So, frantically itching that night, I happen to read online that having high quantities of yeast makes you undesirable to bugs. Which is when it suddenly makes sense; see, Mark loves this stuff called MARMITE. It's yeast extract. I can't compare it to anything else because it just tastes weird. It's unlike any other taste out there. So when those hungry fleas realized the dogs were toxic, they looked around, and they saw a yucky marmite man, and a human chocolate cake. And who doesn't like cake?
Anyway, he's been eating marmite on toast and had mentioned he thought it might help with the bug bites earlier. But I'd disregarded it, because not being desirable to bugs wasn't my goal. My goal was to not get poison oak. And poison oak doesn't care what I taste like.
Next morning, Mark's on a conference call. I'm itching like crazy, everywhere, there's even one in my ear. So I take the plunge, I'm having marmite. I make toast. I get the jar out.
It should be mentioned here that this stuff is VERY potent. It's like horseradish or wasabi. You take it in extremely small quantities. It should also be noted that I have never had marmite on toast before, nor seen it made.
I open the jar. I slather my toast in it. I figured it was like jam, and applied it as such. But then, just in case, I WALKED INTO THE OFFICE AND ASKED MARK, "IS THIS ENOUGH?"
He looks up. He's on the phone. He looks at the marmite saturated piece of toast in my hand. And he says, "IT'S FINE"
Let's be clear. I've placed a two month allotment of a wasabi-like substance on a single piece of toast and he just okayed it for me to ingest.
So I begin. My eyes water. I start to gag. It's the single most vile piece of toast ever. But I soldier on, because I have to. Because I cannot be the only thing in the entire house that is edible to flea. At this point, Mark's call ends. And he looks over at me, watches me gag, and says, "Oh my god, that's way too much!"
I contain the puking feeling. I swallow. I look at him. At which point the following conversation happens:
Sarah: I ASKED you if it was ok! You told me it was fine!
Mark: I was on the phone.
Sarah: But you answered!
Mark: Yeah, but I don't listen when I'm on the phone. Because I'm ON THE PHONE
Sarah: Then say, not now, I'm on the phone. But don't answer me! That's unbelievable. What if I'd asked you if I should drive a nail in my head?
Mark: That's retarded. You didn't ask that.
Sarah: How do you know? You just said you don't listen. I can't believe you.
Mark: You probably needed that much though.
Sarah: That doesn't make it better. I nearly died just now.
Mark: I was helping you.
Sarah: You're impossible.
Oh- and for those who are wondering. The house has been bombed. The house has been vacuumed. The dogs were contact sprayed. Then they were shampooed. Throughly. Which no one was pleased over. Then they were re-treated. Then I spot treated my car. The couch. The beds. The closets. And all dog beds. Just for good measure. Today, I think I don't have any new bites AND the dogs aren't itching like crazy. Win. Win. Except for the yard and the marmite bit. That part still sucks.
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