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Bug bites suck. They're itchy. They hint that you are dugyot. And because people react differently to bug bites, it's hard to figure out which bad boy did it, so figuring out the right solution becomes complicated.

I first noticed a bite on my right forearm on Monday. The next day I saw another one near my elbow. Yesterday I was irritably scratching a third one on my upper arm when it hit me: some tiny creature is feasting upon my delectable freesia-scented blood! Over fish tacos at Papagayo, I revealed my bug love marks, because I'm classy that way. Crispy, polite young woman that she is, said nothing, but Boyfriend instantly scooted as far away as his chair allowed. (Please note that I refused to watch Contagion with him because he would never touch me again.) He tried to use his iPhone to convince me that I had bed bugs, but ha ha ha, the signal is crappy where I work, so there! Besides, Crispy pointed out that bed bugs leave linear marks, and my bites were quite some distance from each other, at least by insect standards.

I did some research Google Images and decided they were flea bites. Flea bites??? Hmmm, now how could I have gotten those?

The usual suspects.
Or really, the only suspects.
I went home filled with righteous righteousness. As Sheba's meow(s) of welcome washed over me, I vigorously ripped the sheets off the bed, the pillowcases of the pillows, and the cover off the comforter. All went into the washer. Then I attacked my head board and the floor under and around my bed with wet wipes. For the coup de grâce, I filled a bucket with warm water, grabbed the kitty, and shampooed her like there was no tomorrow. Good Lord, you'd think I was skinning her alive, the way she howled and yowled. She was like a freaking trumpet. I guess she compensates for her non-violence through volume abuse. So I scrubbed her, rinsed her thoroughly (can't have her licking shampoo suds off!), and bundled her up in towels. And then the fun part: the blow drying! She didn't like that either, but the hum of the machine thankfully masked the sounds of what must seem like cat torture. The upshot is, she now feels silkier than usual, and she smells fantastic.

Then my building's fire alarm went off because the couple upstairs had a cooking accident, but that's another story. The point is, my cat better be flea-free, my home better be bug-free, and Boyfriend better remember to get his cat a flea collar. (Oscar has not been ruled out as a suspect, but he'll slit your wrists if you try to give him a bath.)

Happy Friday!!!

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