September 27, 2007
Right after the Autumnal Equinox, year after year, as if on cue, our home becomes housefly central for a day or two. It’s not a gradual thing either. Tuesday night, after work, I managed to fix myself a little snack without incident. However the very next night, while attempting to fix dinner, several flies circled my head in what seemed like a holding pattern, while many more of their comrades paced across the cutting board with their nasty little bug feet. At least 50 or 60 flies crawled, flitted and buzzed over every inch of our kitchen. One even got stuck in the butter!
“That’s it!” Tom growled. “This is war!”
He grabbed an old Bonny Doon Wine Club pamphlet, and started swatting at
the air wildly. The swatting was punctuated intermittently by loud thwaps
and kersplats! The thwapping and kersplatting sent the kitties vaulting out of
the kitchen, to farther reaches of the house, each heading for a different piece of furniture to hide under.
Undaunted by the melee behind me, I continued with the mushroom omelette I had started. It was the first time in weeks I had prepared anything but toast or cereal, so this was a big deal. With one hand whisking eggs and the other swatting flies from my face and the food, I forged on.
In the mean time, Tom was still busy at his fly swatting task. At one point he started waving his makeshift swatter annoyingly in my face.
“Sorry”, he said, “I’m herding them to the killing field, where I can get a better crack at ’em.”
The killing field! Was my dear sweet husband slipping into a deep, dark place? Hoping to redirect the subject, I mention to him that they seem pretty slow and sluggish for flies.
“Yeah”, he says, “I think they’ve just hatched.”
“Wow”, I say, “They’re just little baby flies”
Tom’s eyes narrow, “They’re dead baby flies!”
I shudder at the thought.
“You do know what those baby flies were before they hatched, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, ugh.”
“Right, let’s not even go there.” He finishes.
As gross as the whole situation is, I’m eternally grateful Tom has taken on the task. Someone has to do it, right? I finish up the meal preparation. Then I finally quietly and slowly talk him down from his killing spree.
“Come on honey, make us some toast.”
“Oh alright, let’s have dinner,” he says, sounding a little more like himself.
We devour our rare weekday home cooked meal, and Tom assures me that it is the best omelette he has ever had. I blush. What a sweet thing to say.
I assure him that he is indeed The Fly Slayer. He seems to like that title, and puffs up his chest a bit, as he walks into the other room, triumphant. Our house is once again safe from the filthy vermin.
At least for now.