Beth Howard, Warrior Princess of Power

I should title this post simply: Public Service Announcement.

I really considered it.

HOWEVER, I am going to instead title it with the pat on the back that I earned for what I have just endured. If you are easily made ill or faint of heart, read at your own risk. I will not be liable for anything that happens to you as mouth is gaping open and your skin is crawling.

Our story begins Friday July 15th, in the Stater Bros. Super Market on 40th & Waterman. I picked Bill up from work and we then proceeded there to do this weekend's shopping In the back of my mind, I had been formulating how I was going to talk him into spending Saturday afternoon at Deep Creek in Cedar Glen with some of my girlfriend's from work and their children... INSTEAD of cleaning. Weird? No.. no. Not at all.

You see this is a consistent issue between the Bill and I, as I have the ability to change direction at any time. Because I am like a ninja. A "plan's have changed... no problem" ninja. He is an old, old man of 41. He lacks spontaneity almost entirely. He likes order and routine and consistency. He enjoys "planning"very, very much. So much so that every single phone call we ever have includes the phrase, "So... what's you plan?". Sometimes I want to say, "Become the Speaker of the House, the Senate Majority Leader and the President of these United States. ALL AT THE SAME TIME." just to throw a wrench.

(I won't say I digress; I'll just say: Enywayz. I'm from CA, after all.) When The Man comes home, he wants to come home to a spotless house, a wife who looks like she just stepped out of a 1955 Playboy magazine and dinner that could have come from a photo in Food and Wine Magazine. Then he wants to shower, put his feet up, gather his family around him, watch a movie, drink a Stone Ruination and reeeelaaaaxxxx.

On Saturdays, he wants to get up... smoke a cigarette, drink about 27 cups of coffee, use the restroom, smoke a cigarette, make off color remark and/or smack my ass, open his BBQ Bible, pray, choose a recipe, smoke a cigarette, go to the expensive rip off store for 47 things he forgot at Stater Bros, smoke a cigarette, fill my children full of donut-y goodness and spawn insanity, spend the rest of the morning measuring and preparing, smoke a cigarette, turn on various History Channel programming OR Ice Road Truckers, take a nap, get up, smoke a cigarette, have 27 more cups coffee, use the restroom again, smoke a cigarette, make another off color remark and/or smack my ass, light the grill, crack a Ruination, smoke a cigarette, GRILL, smoke a cigarette, prepare side dishes, present dinner, eat, smoke a cigarette, choose a movie, watch movie, smoke a cigarette, send kids to bed... expect off color remarks and/or ass smacking to pay off and then sleep. There is very little exception to this, unless something has been in the works for several weeks, and even then I watch him struggle internally with reasons mayyyyybbbbbbeeee we should just stay home.

Alas, poor Bill. Every weekend he comes home to me. I would LOVE to look like a 1955 Playboy model. I would love to have a spotless house. I would love to have a dinner resembling something out of Food and Wine Magazine on the table for him, ready and waiting every Friday night. Really. I would. I'd also really like to bring about world peace, end hunger, empower women from every culture and cure AIDS and cancer. Unfortunately for Bill, these things are further up on the list. Also, I work at Hell, Inc. all week and do all the weekly child rearing myself. So housework? MWHAHAHA! I laugh at house work. Beyond the nightly dishes, 2 or 3 vacuuming stints and a load of laundry or two... if you expected more, I'd be happy to get you a gift. The gift of DISAPPOINTMENT. Act now and I'll throw in a free swift kick to the junk.

POINT: More often than not The Man comes home to a messy house. Being the amazing guy he is, he just walks in, looks around, sighs, and without a word goes into the kitchen and makes dinner for all of us. Then he gets in the shower, gets his beer, gets his movie time in with the boys and smiles over at me like I mine as well be a 1955 Playboy model. This is now a very probable certainty to him, so he's added it to his routine and automatically plans to spend most of Saturday morning helping me undo to the house what has been done all week.

He is an awesome man. We all know this. I won't go on and on. HOWEVER... you might possibly see, despite the awesome, how a girl who thrives on inconsistency and excitement can get kinda frustrated. And to be fair, vice versa.

Let's return now to Stater Bros., 40th & Waterman. Work friend had invited us that very morning to attend an impromptu gathering at the local creek, which kind of doubles as our "river experience" around here. Sure to be a "sun soaking, beer drinking, young boys get to play and stay occupied, while the adults laugh and chat" heck of a time. I thought about that for about .000001 of a second before I decided that I'd rather do that, than clean. As we're walking the aisles of Staters, I can think of no other tactic than to just blurt out

"I know you're going to need a little bit of time to think about this and get acclimated....BUT... IreallyreallyreallywanttogowithRachelandNikkiandbunchofother

peopledowntoDeepCreektomorrowandhangoutfortheafternoon!!! So we should probably just get sandwich stuff and snacks and drinks while we're here because we'll need it for tomorrow, right? I mean take minute and think about it. But please say yes! But take a minute... to think about it. And adjust. I know you need some time. It'll be so fun. I promise. I'll walk away now to get bread and chips and leave you to think. About saying, "Yes. I'd love to. Sounds super fun."

Scowl. Stern look. Shifting of eyes. Rolling of eyes. Irritated sigh. Exasperated sigh. Starts to say, "You know..." Pauses. Irritated sigh. Exasperated sigh. "Why do you ALWAYS do this?"

"Why do I always do what? Arrange for fun times? Strive for quality family bonding in "outing" form? Force you to make snap decisions so as to make you a better and more well rounded person?"

"Deviate from the plan!!! We have a plan. You already told me the house is a mess. I told you I want to spend tomorrow CLEANING so that I can feel comfortable in my house and you don't bitch at me when I leave Sunday that I left it all for you to do."

"Ok. How about this? How about I bust my ass tonight while you guys are eating and watching the movie and I get the house UBER SPECTACULAR clean. THEN... you live on the edge a little and commit to an activity you have had less than 72 hours to weight all the options, points and possibilities on. It'll be fun. I'll be YOU. And you... YOU get to be ME. Lucky you. I might try to stand and pee I'll get so caught up. First I'll make a plan, though."

Scowl. Stern look. Shifting of eyes. Rolling of eyes. Irritated sigh. Exasperated sigh. Growl of frustration. "FINE."

So that was the "plan". I began "cleaning all the things" immediately after we got home. I was on it. Dinner... made. Dishes.. done. Counters... spotless. Stove... sparkling. Table... wiped DOWN. Kitchen floor....

.......

"What the HELL?!? BILL!!! BILL! I think there is a maggot on our kitchen floor."

"What?!? It's probably not a maggot. And if it is, it's probably because I had the door open earlier. Anyway, thank you for cleaning up. The house is looking good. I appreciate it. Come to bed soon."

That literally happened. I said, I think there is a maggot in my home... and he literally brushed my concern off, took the boys upstairs, put them to bed and then went to bed himself.

I had no reaction to that at first. Until I realized there was not one maggot on my kitchen floor. There were about 20 of them when it was all said and done.

Let's rewind for just a minute before we get into the next portion. Earlier when I said that my house was never going to be spotless by then end of the week, I meant it. I do feel the need to explain to you, though, that just because my house is not spotless... doesn't mean it's dirty. It's cluttered. It's got too much stuff and not enough places for it. It's got laundry piled up and toys on the floor. It's occasionally got toothpaste on the counter that needs to be wiped up. It's got dishes in the sink more often than not. It's got an entryway that needs to be swept. The boy's rooms always looks like a bomb exploded. Dusting should happen more often. I consider this be "normal". We aren't hoarders. Or the renters from hell that move in and never clean anything. If you showed up unannounced, I would be a little embarrassed, but I'd let you in. Don't do that, though.

I would hope as I continue you, you would keep this in mind for the rest of the story. Beth Howard: Not super clean... but not a hoarder/non-cleaner.

I am sure that you can imagine, as soon as I realized that Bill was WRONG... it was a maggot and that it had friends, I went directly to the laundry room and got out my favorite cleaning friend, Bleach. Bleach is my "go to" comfort cleaner. If I am questionable about the cleanliness of anything, Bleach it is. For the next 20 minutes, I hand scrubbed/sanitized the kitchen floor, counters, refrigerator door oven front and bottom cupboard doors. I was feeling better. Confused as to where the hell those things came from... but better. Just as I was about to sit down and think on that...

"FUCK. You have got to be fucking KIDDING ME."

To my credit I did not have a mental breakdown at this point. I looked at the carpet in my dinning room and noticed about 50 more maggots writhing around on my rug and did NOT lose my shit. I kept it together. Thank you... I know. I know. I simply moved the chairs into the kitchen, moved the table into the living room got out the steam cleaner and began to clean the hell out of the carpet and rug. WHERE ARE THE COMING FROM?!?

Then it hit me. The trash. I hadn't taken the trash out since Sunday, as we really hadn't produced much during the week and the little bit we had, I didn't want to have to deal with picking up after the raccoons got into it. HOWEVER... what was in there was probably a few diapers and some dinner remains. I couldn't tell you for sure, though, because I grabbed the can and RAN to get it the hell out of my house.

When I came back to my absolute HORROR... as cliche as that it... I looked down only to see 50 more take the place of the ones I had just steamed over. And it occurred to me that I was gonna have to move the rug and do this one thing at a time. Remember the cliched use of the word HORROR? What can we go with that's worse and more intense? Choose your own adjective. Insert it now. That is how I felt when I lifted the rug to find at least a hundred more of those fuckers underneath. Again to my credit, I didn't yet have my break down. I just went and got the vacuum and alternated between vacuum and steam cleaner.

At some point I started crying, though I couldn't tell you exactly when. At some point I started drinking, though I couldn't tell you when that was either. After about an hour of going over the same area, one spot at a time, getting more and more of those nasty little things to crawl out... I went upstairs to my bedroom, flipped the light on and sobbed,

"Bill... they're everywhere. I keep cleaning and they keep popping up."

"What the hell are you talking about. Turn the light off!! I was asleep."

"The maggots, Bill. They're in the dining room carpet and they just keep coming out."

"I don't know what you are saying to me, but whatever it is, we'll deal with it tomorrow. Come to bed."

I am sure I must have looked like a chick straight out of a horror movie, mascara running down my face, standing there babbling about "Attack of the Maggots". I don't know how I did it, but I did what he asked, and I got into bed and went right to sleep.

The next morning, he got up and I bolted up with him, terrified as to what I would see when I went down stairs. It was as expected. There were maggots crawling on the dining room floor, as well as across the living room. Not as many as I had seen the night before... but enough to still make my skin crawl. I sat on the couch drinking coffee as Bill ran around with a paper towel, picking them up and putting them in a trash bag. There was no witty conversation.

I looked up online to see how rare this was. Turns out, it isn't rare at all. Here comes the Public Service Announcement: The way you kill maggots in your carpet is with boiling water and bleach. We called and flaked on my friends for Deep Creek, and I spent the entire rest of the day boiling water, pouring it on the carpet, watching those little assholes crawl up out of the heat and die, spraying the area with bleach water and then sucking it all up in the steam cleaner. 2 bottles of bleach and an entire lake of water later, I believe they are gone. Just to be sure though, I am going to treat the entire carpet with Borax tonight after the boys go to bed and vacuum it up in the morning. You can also use flea powder, but it don't like the chemicals and Borax is way less toxic.

I did finally breakdown about halfway through the day, BTW. It came when Bill absentmindedly set the trash bag he was using for maggot cleanup on my kitchen table. I don't think I've actually ever hyperventilated before, but I am pretty sure that I did then. He forced a beer on me and made me take a break outside. This has been a longer story than I wanted it to be. It also is not nearly as humorous as I would have liked. End result is that I feel violated. It almost feels like we got robbed, to tell you the truth. Also, new rule: We no longer have a kitchen trash in the house. New bag every time we need to throw a lot of things a way at the same time OR we just walk ourselves outside and through single items away. I am thinking about doing the same with the bathroom trash.

Tomorrow I'm going to arrange to get an estimate for new carpet. I'm still sitting here shuddering.