I love the city. I like to be where the action is. I like the craziness of our neighbors, the proximity of their strange and foreign ways. It is fun and makes me feel alive. Yes, I know city living has its drawbacks--noise, road rage, potential drive-bys. But I am a city girl through and through.
Occasionally, I visit the suburbs and country. And mostly, I am glad to return. All that open space is scary. It's where people from the city come to dump bodies. Its where chain saw wielding maniacs are born--an important issue plaguing the backwoods of Maine and West Virginia. I have seen documentaries like Wrong Turn, House of 1,000 Corpses and Texas Chainsaw Massacre, all of which highlight the pain these freaks have wreaked upon city folk who venture too far from home. With all these stresses, I always feel relieved when we come back from the lake house, back to the chaos, back to the sane people who do not saw people's faces off and make masks of them.
Now, thanks to our dog, we have brought something back with us from the country--something far scarier than chainsaw freaks, gang members, rapists and keyspan man combined. Ladies and gentlemen we have ticks. They are all over our F^*%^ing house. R found on on his arm, I found one on my butt and, thus far, we have found two on the dog. I am horrified, shocked and disgusted. I think that perhaps this is the worst thing that has happened to me in all my life (at least for this moment). I think we have an infestation.
Today we are going to treat the dog and cat with Frontline because the idea of combing through our 25-pound cat's mangy lion mane is about as appealing as dining with Leatherface and familia. Instead, I will let the chemicals do their job and kill any of the nasty little buggers that might be clinging to him. Mother F%^er. Give me concrete. Give me pollution, noise and overcrowding. I am never going to the country again.