A while back I blogged about our family’s lice infestation and how I was actually enjoying that plague because it was bringing us all closer together (http://lisays.wordpress.com/2011/09/27/lice-just-a-bowl-of-cherries/).
Ah, what an innocent, idealist naïf I was but a few weeks ago. Not that it wasn’t true at the time, but now I confess I may have opened up a giant, karmic can of worms (or bugs, in this case) by putting that welcome sign “out there” in the universe.
So now, seemingly endless fortnights into this hard-fought battle for follicle supremacy, I am officially renouncing my love of lice.
Oh, the things I have learned, though, throughout this process!
For example, the origin of the phrase “nit picking” and how the actual act thereof totally kicks verbal nit picking’s ass (not in a good way). Also, I now know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the last living creature left standing after a nuclear holocaust will not be a cockroach, but a louse. (And perhaps a Kardashian.) And yes — I finally get why you might call a really annoying, good-for-nothing parasite of a person a louse! It’s admittedly old-school, (“Gee whiz, Beaver, quit being such a louse!) but I strongly feel we should bring it back.
‘Cause right now, some five million laundry loads into it, that is the worst name I could ever call someone.
I’ve also learned that even if you’ve been declared clean by the school nurse/Nit Nazi and your house has been vacuumed and bleached and scrubbed down as if it were invaded by Merry Maids on crystal meth – your kids will still be “liced”.
Liced: To be iced out of playmates due to a reputation for having lice, even if the case is no longer active.
So pardon my language, but F@$k you, you microscopic, bastard, hair-hobo lock-suckers. Party’s over.
Did we have some good times? Yeah, we sure did. I’m playing the montage in my head right now to the song “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”. But just like that hot guy you meet at a Lollapalooza after-party who you have a hell of a good time with until you see his Tasmanian Devil tattoo and find out he is not actually the bass player for Bon Iver but rather a Renaissance Faire actor who lives in his stepmom’s basement … it’s time to part ways.
Word to the lice: You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here… or should I say hair?
I will miss the puns.