Home Sweet Home

The men came last Monday and tore out all the pee-soaked carpets.  They were not happy campers.  They were Italian immigrants, used to the bungalow lifestyle in Woodbridge so having to walk up and down 3 flights of stairs, inhaling urine fumes, manoeuvring hunks of carpet through the most narrowest of doorways, made them scowl all day.  If my halls were arteries, they would be forced to have an angioplasty.  “These houses were built stupidly,” one of the workers said in a thick accent, ‘Why Canada have so much land and they build the houses so close together?  Make-a no sense-a!”  I had the answer to that but I just agreed, “Stupid, yeah.”  My house was built in 1934, long before the growth hormones in the cattle gave us all height and high fructose corn syrup made us wide.  People were puny back then.  They also had two frocks and one coat.  It wasn’t until the estrogen-based bi-products from the plastic industry in the 1950s which turned everyone into a gay fashionista that the teeny tiny closets in these houses seemed absurd.   Olden-days people had few needs and they didn’t complain about stairs and such. The houses were close together to keep warm.  It’s fricking freezing in Canada, duh.   But the cranky men did finish the job in one day, and the slippery engineered wood floors are a lot better than stinky carpet.  Freddy is still at camp until the end of July and will positively plotz when he sees his floor, but then probably kvetch when he sees how I disassembled his gaming systems so now the wires are a tangled nest of snakes, who knows what goes into which hole?  Although I guess 15 year old boys have an innate knowledge of where plugs go.

And speaking of displaced, now that the dog has no where plush to piss in the house, she goes outside.  Guess what?  SHE HAD BLADDER CONTROL ALL THIS TIME!  At first she was afraid of the new floor, and hid under the bed, but now she paces on it at night:  click, click, clickity, click….click…click, tap and scratch with her claws on her frito-smelling feet.  There’s always something. Like a couple of nights ago there was banging in the kitchen.  If it’s the mice (yes, mice, old timey houses have lots of rodents, learn to love them), why is Betty not barking?  One of them died a couple of weeks ago with its ass and tail hanging out from under the fridge, impaled by a raw piece of spaghetti and Betty completely ignored it.  What good is a dog, who is smaller than most cats, if she can’t catch or deter mice from raiding my kitchen?  So I got up and turned on the light and could see the garbage lid going up and down all by itself.  Relax, there are no ghosts, it’s one of those motion sensor lids that probably got out of whack, like every other appliance in the house.  When I got up close, though, the lid and the entire garbage can was crawling with hundreds of MAGGOTS!   There is nothing worse than a triple shot of horror driven adrenaline in the wee morning hours.  I screamed and hollered and Evangeline and I bagged the entire bin up in plastic while we hopped around, trying not to step on any of the bugs.  I cannot handle maggots, epecially a zillion of them crawling wildly (note to self:  do not die at home alone).   This is not the first time I’ve hosted a maggot-palooza, so I’ve been careful but I think I put one of those juiced up paper wrappers from the butcher in the clean garbage instead of the sealed green bin.  My bad.  Super gross, and now the house is full of flies, the noisy, boisterous kind that buzz near the windows.   I give up.  Party on, creatures, just keep it to a dull roar.

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