A Day In The Life of Who Else?

"Would you like to hear my diagnosis?" "Not really."

"We've never really encountered fleas of this ilk," says hubby, after I've once again pointed out the 82 bites on my personage, bites that are driving me slowly insane. My next blog may be coming to you from The Institute For The Very, Very Itchy. All week, we've been assuming these horrific bites we've both collected, although the scales of injustice being what they are, I've amassed mucho mas, were mosquito-esque in nature. Turns out, we were mistaken. These hateful bites come courtesy of a certain Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. I don't want to name him, in case he reads this later and feels hurt, but his name starts with a "B" and ends with a "Y." Now and then, he kills a rat when the mood strikes. That's all I'm saying.

Once hubby caught the culprit napping on the doggy's behind, we spent the rest of the day compulsively cleaning like lunatics. The SJG took on the laundry, for I am the Laundry Bitch, while hubby vacuumed everything that can be vacuumed, including me and the dog. After a quick emergency call to the doctor, I'm now currently jacked up on steroids, antihistamines and all-consuming angst that this is my destiny, to scratch and itch myself into oblivion.

The evening was a happy reprieve from my suffering. After bathing in oatmeal and spraying myself with a delightful hint of Calamine #5, we headed off with the sons and the in-laws and hubby's hilarious aunt to celebrate his mommy's birthday at our local Italian eatery where they used to know our names but can't remember them anymore.

Sad!

It's not often you get to break rosemary bread with two sisters, one 85, the other 91, who still talk to each other and make each other laugh, and most importantly, me. I needed something to distract me,  and these gals did the trick. Some of my favorite exchanges:

"I can't believe I'm 90!"
"You're not 90. You're 91."
"I can't believe I'm 91." She turns to me. "You have any idea what it's like to be 90?"
"You're 91," my mother-in-law reminds her.
"You have any idea what it's like to be 91?"
"What's it like?" I say.
"All your friends are dead."

Which brings us back to the fleas. May those bastards rest in peace.