More about...the intruders

I can just tell that you're all dying to know how Apocalouse 2011 is coming along. And I am dying to tell you.

The update is thus: having read the entire Internet in a matter of hours, I figured out that the best method was the ol' Pantene-conditioner-and-comb shimsham. I mixed in some baking soda, because someone somewhere recommended that, and I figured it couldn't hurt. Baking soda never hurts! And always helps! Is there anything baking soda can't do? I take it for my nerves! 

I also ordered this fancy German lice comb, the Nisska, because that's what the pros use. And LICE LAUGH AT AMATEURS.

The first night I combed out my son's hair, it took about two hours, and I spent most of the time crying and screaming. This is not at all true. Actually he watched Pirates of the Caribbean, and I gave Scott significant looks every time I wiped the comb clean and found colonies of nits. But no live lice! So that's something….?

We did it again the next night, and there were definitely far fewer nits. That there were any at all amazes me. But fewer, that's something! Right? Oh, God!

The day after that I checked my own head, and what do you know! Nits! I smashed the apartment until everything was rubble. Then I did the conditioner-and-comb routine on myself. By the way, Pantene smells like the worst perfume you could ever imagine. I'm used to my all-natural, touch-of-rosemary conditioner, and this stuff smells like I'm putting my grandma on my head. Actually both of my grandmas smelled better than Pantene.  Scott went out and bought another cheap white conditioner, and what do you know, it smelled just as much like a funeral home. Why?

ANYWAY. Once I found out that I was horribly infested as well, I figured, let's be thorough, and after taking a hefty dose of tranquilizers, I combed out Scott's hair. Need I tell you what I found? I had already spoken to one of the Lice Ladies of Brooklyn, and she was lovely and caring and seemed to think that I didn't particularly need her help, now that I had the fancy comb and the mental illness required to obsessively groom one's family. She had mentioned that men rarely get lice, because of the testosterone. I found this logic specious, to say the least, especially because I know plenty of men--virile specimens all!--who've fallen victim to lice, but while I combed out Scott's hair he was crying like a little girl, so maybe she had a point?

I'm joking, of course. When I showed him the nits in his hair, he merely grunted, poured lighter fluid on his head, and asked where the matches were. Good thing we couldn't find them! It turns out that lice love fire.

So that's where we are now. Tonight we will embark on another family-time combing adventure, while we watch several movies. And we will do the same tomorrow. And the next day. I don't see this ever ending.