People, we are one pig head short of and two adults over for a William Golding novel. I swear. I mean, we have the boys. Not as many as Mr. Golding envisioned; but two of them, if left unsupervised, could lose all semblance of their humanity in about 3.5 unsupervised seconds. And? We have the flies. Dear heavens to Murgatroid (unless your British like Mr. Golding, then it’s Murgatroyd), we have the flies.
We live in the country, so houseflies, irritating though they are, are nothing new; but last summer? The population that got into our house quadrupled to the power of five. Or something. I’m not math-y; but I am pretty sure these bugs are out for blood. Or info. Whatever happened last summer apparently just involved an inordinate number of scout flies, many of whom gave their lives to gather whatever intel the rest of the flies needed in order to lay the groundwork for the Fly League Invasion of Entirety, Summer 2016 (code name FLIES 16). This summer I actually wouldn’t be surprised to find a pig head on a stake in my living room. It would explain a lot. For crying out loud, we even have a dragonfly in here right now. Where’s a maniacal, bloodthirsty band of boys when you need them?
(Cleaning the toy room at the moment, thankyouverymuch.)
We can’t figure it out, this fly problem of ours. This evening, as he stood with a fly swatter in each hand, coiled to spring at the next unfortunate winged menace to land on the front door windows, The Husband said, “I half wish we would just find a dead possum under one of the boys’ beds, because then we could throw it out and know we’re done with all this.” I don’t think the husband has read Mr. Golding’s book, or he, too, would have said “pig head” rather than “possum.” We just gutted the boys’ rooms a week or two ago, however, so that, along with the distinct lack of olfactory putrescence emanating from the upper level of our home, pretty much guarantees we won’t find any rotting animals, road kill or otherwise, under the beds.
There is nothing like a fly invasion in one’s home to precipitate these most unexpected conversations.
“You know what I like?” I asked as The Husband, L~, and I ran from foyer to dining room, window to window, and back again flailing and swatting away. “I like it when I manage to hit one clean out of the air and I hear it hit the swatter, and then I hear it hit the wall or the window or whatever and ricochet off. It is just so. . . .”
“THE most satisfying feeling!” the husband exulted as he smashed a fly against a window.
Egad! The dragonfly just flew into a wall sconce globe. I guess that takes care of that problem. I need to set a reminder on my phone to buy a bug net at the dollar store next spring.
“Yes! Exactly! So satisfying,” I said as I swung for another. “Like, yippe-ki-yay . . . mumble mumble!” (and I did say, “mumble mumble”).
Strange how an overabundance of houseflies can cause me to identify with a fictional character’s satisfaction of blood lust even though I’ve never actually watched the whole movie. Yes, Bruce Willis and my fly swatter are my home boys, until we get a good freeze, anyway.
After a good two hours of Fly Reduction with Intended Entire Destruction (code name FRIED) activities tonight, I am listening to the ungodly buzz of at least three flies as I type (which means there are probably about 20 still alive in my house). Hopefully one of our two bug zappers (oh yeah, we’re all kinds of swanky right now with two, yes TWO bug zappers IN. OUR. HOUSE!) . . . hopefully the remaining flies, however many there are, will succumb to a bug zapper after I turn out all the lights tonight.
Yippe-ki-yay, mumble mumbles.
Tewt the Newt doesn’t even want you around.