Welcome to a special layer of hell. B-town. Nothing much happens except fleas continue to pester you and your air mattress deflates every half hour.
Today's agenda included one last comb-through of the dog's fur for any remaining fleas from the pest-killing shampoo I doused them in yesterday. The dogs have been eating garlic for breakfast for three days to make them less palatable. I was hopeful. I was stupid. Fleas came leaping out of their hair too quickly for me to kill them. I ended up winging open the kitchen door and throwing the entire comb out onto the front steps in horror. Like that would fix it. The fleas jumped down out of the comb and back into the grass until next time.
Back at the laundromat with my garbage bags of dog beds, I'm slightly less bothered by a group of sixth graders who think it's fun to skateboard inside the building and beg for quarters while reading a raggedy Playboy and telling other launderers that there's a photo of me in it. I had forgotten how annoying preadolescent boys could be. One of them tells me his dad is a pro-skateboarder. I ask him for money. He goes away. The other two do not. I leave my things and pack up to head the three blocks home for lunch with George. A boy locks me out of the facility and tells me I'll need a password for access. When I return, another patron has called the cops on the boys, just for pretend, and they've vacated. She smiles as she leaves, "Enjoy the quiet!" I do.
When everything is swept and mopped and combed and washed, I lay on my clean bed and reflect on the fact that I need to find a house. Somewhere to put the clean laundry where it's off the ground and will stay clean. Somewhere to curl up on my couches that I miss and read my books, not that I dislike my plastic lawn chair but it is a little unsteady when I reach for hot cups of tea. Somewhere the refrigerator resides in the kitchen as it should be. Tomorrow the house search continues.
I have repainted my toes because of the earlier rejection of Summer Berry. Do you like Fresh Pink, pretty little real estate fairies?