It’s 12:39 in the morning. I’m typing this with lice shampoo in my hair. I was last to go after my wife spent the last eight hours combing lice out of my daughter’s hair and her own. Oh, and cleaning the bedding. I don’t have lice because I sleep on an old green couch (another post), but I’m taking one for the team – just in case I have the invisible kind of these little buggers. Looking at my wife comb them out of my daughter’s head made my head inch.
I spent part of the night at Walmart in the longest line you’d ever want to see when you’re trying to buy four $5 pillows (I need two) and three $5 movies for your mother-in-law who came over to man the washer and dryer. I almost walked out when the woman ahead of me decided she didn’t want 4 of the 47 items she’d purchased and the cashier had to re-ring the entire order – minus the detergent and jumbo box of Butterfingers. She kept the two dozen cans of cat food. I’m thinking she’s the type you see on the news with 200 cats living in her house.
I gutted it out and paid. Give me a medal, please.
Then I coughed up some blood. Not a lot, but enough to rock my world. I wrote the doctor and told him if he didn’t find a way to fix this, I was going to jump off the hospital roof next time. I didn’t say quite that. But I was thinking it. That counts for something.
Hold on. The timer is going off. I need to get the shampoo rinsed out before it melts my head like it’s made of wax, which isn’t far from the truth.
[wait for it, wait for it, wait for it.]
I’m back. That sucked. My wife washed the poison shampoo from my scalp. I’m hoping my hair doesn’t fall out while I sleep. I wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Though I think it’s more likely I’ll wake up to find lice the size of mice playing on my chest. I’ll tell them: “I’ve coughed up scarier bugs. Now run along.”