Warning: I'm going to talk about buggers.
Ever since we moved in to this house, exactly one month ago this weekend, I have been experiencing something (sinuously speaking) that can only be described as, well...gross.
I am at a loss at who the culprit of this rather unpleasant stickiness is, fearing a combination of the 30-year-old Cottonwood, and perhaps (gasp) a growing black substance amidst the sheet rock and mortar.
Knowing I myself am not the only one affected, brings my concern to an all new level. As Al has been snoring like boyfriend #29 did. No, that was #17 who snored like an apnec Sasquatch, #29 was a rock star. Or was #29 the Chef?
Not until we lay our heads at the end of the day, does this breathing difficulty take center stage. During daylight hours, the bugger issue (bugger, not bigger) is at hand, er...finger.
Buggers, of such an unusual consistency, I would be hard pressed to say I was not in a foreign climate somewhere. Buggers, unbeknownst to me, my child was experiencing also. That is until I mentioned, at dinner of course, my regret at having trimmed my nails back so harshly.
"Mom! You too? My buggers are...well, my buggers are...different than they used to be!"
The look on my child's face, tone of voice, tilt of his head, told me he had been experiencing a degree of anxiety over this subject for some time, and that in sharing with him my own psychic disturbances regarding my sinus cavernosus, I inadvertently confirmed his dread that he, and now we, were dying of a rare and incurable disease.
One that leaves ones buggers the same consistency as the adhesive substance used to attach ads on the front of the Yellow Pages.
Al is over-joyed to know he, and we, are not (hopefully) on the road to purchasing the farm. However the afore mentioned problem has still not been addressed.
Ah-chew.
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