Brad Paisley sings a song that says “I want to check you for ticks,” and it’s supposed to be some sort of love song or pick-up line. I always thought it was super-cheesy, but now I can say from experience that there is absolutely no ounce of romance to doing such.
Yesterday, my fiance Nathan and I checked out a house in town we had seen online. It seemed like a great steal, 4 bedrooms with 2 bathrooms and a nice level yard and large front porch. It had sold in April for practically nothing, but the person who bought it was willing to take an offer on it. We have been searching nonstop for three months to no avail, and we’ve been to just about everywhere in the surrounding area from Chattanooga TN to nearly Atlanta. Every time we find a decent house, it’s too expensive, and every time we think we’re going to capitalize on a foreclosure, it winds up getting garnered names like “The Cat Shit House,” or the “Crackhead on a Bike House”. So this one was looking really promising.
The door was open, so we walked right in. It was about to be called “The WTF? House”, because it had really nice features, like hardwood floors and three fireplaces, but some asshole at some point had decided he was a handyman and wound up really screwing up the house. For instance, someone had taken a closet out of a bedroom and turned it into a built-in bookcase. Then, they made their own closet, and built it onto the backside of the fireplace. WTF? Then, they built onto the house and made a shabby laundry room to house their hot water heater, but the way it was built, they left the window in the bathroom as is and so there was a big square hole behind the toilet that went into the laundry room. Have these people never heard of privacy? So, you can probably see why it was about to be called “The WTF? House”.
We decided that if the owner wanted to sell it for nearly as cheaply as he had bought it, we could probably take $20,000 and make it livable and sensible. It really did have potential. We returned to the car and got almost to the stop sign at the end of the street when I noticed a spider crawling on my leg. I shrieked and almost ran into the ditch when I noticed there were a LOT of spiders crawling all over me. Nathan said, “PULL OVER! THOSE AREN’T SPIDERS! THEY’RE TICKS!!!”
In my life, I have maybe seen one tick on me. All I know about them is they’re bloodsuckers and that it’s really shitty trying to get them off of you. So, I pulled into a parking lot, flailing around, trying to flick them off of my clothes. There must have been thirty of them, and Nathan had them on him, too. Poor Tim Russert, there was a People Magazine in my car and we were using it to whack each other and try to get them off, but there were more and more with every swat. It was horrible. A man walked by and we probably looked like we were doing some sort of Native American rain dance, especially when I was hopping around on one foot shaking my shoe in the air.
“Jessica, quit whining!”
“THERE! ARE! TWO! IN MY SHOE!!!”
The guy just kept walking.
I don’t know how we made it home, but we did. We stepped inside the door and immediately started stripping. I’m sure if anyone lives across the hall from my apartment, he/she got a nice view of my naked butt because I threw all of my clothes into the hall.
Let me tell you. You don’t know romance until your guy is checking your naked body, tampon string and all, for damn ticks and pulling them off with tweezers and putting them into a bag. I have rarely been more embarrassed in all my life. Even worse when he found like ten on my skin and his grand total? TWO. Ick.
All that flailing, and I threw my back out. So now I’m hunched like an old lady and can’t bend at all. Does that mean the house, now “The Tick Brothel House”, is still a good-enough deal to check out again? I don’t know. I’m not going back there until it’s been exterminated. Where would all those bloodsuckers have come from?
So, I have been there, on our three-year anniversary, no less, checked for ticks by my sweetie. It’s not fun. Brad Paisley can kiss my ass.