This will go down in history as the Summer of The Biblical Plagues on my house. Seriously. First it was the mice, which I took care of with four live traps and one cat. Then these itty bitty ants showed up in the kitchen addition. Some Terro ant stuff took care of that. Now, when we came back from our trip this weekend, there are like nine houseflies in our house. We went from having zero flies to nine. Or maybe nine hundred. They’re hard to count because they keep moving around. It’s weird because we NEVER have flies in the house. I don’t even own a fly swatter. Mostly because the ones that do get in are stalked and quickly (and disgustingly) crunched by Tilly. But she seems to be mostly apathetic to the fly invasion. Perhaps she is resting on the mouse laurels. Which sounds like mouse slang for their reproductive organs. If mice had slang. Or something. Er. Yeah.
At lunch yesterday I have halfheartedly embarked upon a new project. I want to make pretty glass magnets, but sort of cutting edge ones, for my cube shelf (to replace my plastic toy dinosaurs, which were looking a little’ Jurassic Era on Acid). Eh. I’m going to try it. And then most likely abandon it to my storage bins which are called Where Good Projects Go To Die. I’m already not happy with it. I couldn’t find the right-sized paper punch for the glass bauble thingies. And the glass thingies are irregularly shaped, which bugs me. And I couldn’t find good magnets. Yes, I’m anal about the damn magnets that you won’t even see. Ah well. The entire thing is resting upon needing the correct sized paper punch, because I am completely inept at cutting circles. Also, I’m better at conceptualizing than follow through. Too many water hazards and I’m all ‘Screw it, let’s go drink martinis in the clubhouse.’
So after I finished gathering glass thingies and magnets at a Craft Store Of Gay (TM Gawain), I wandered over to the hardware store where I found fly strips, of the type you see in stereotypical dirty diners and also crack dens. Six for a buck. Seemed far less messy than trying to hunt and kill them with a fly swatter. Also, I had slammed two of them with a West Elm catalogue and both had flown away in sort of a crooked pattern, obviously a little shaken by the lovely home furnishings in subdued green and lavender but no worse for wear. I liked the idea of the strips. It would show the other flies that I wasn’t messing around. I was instating Fly Purgatory.
Hard to believe that I was once a vegetarian, is it not? It’s sort of ridiculous, my sliding scale of the preciousness of life. Spiders are ushered gently outside (unless they are very ugly, in which case I either shriek for Esteban or ignore them and hope that they leave the premises insulted, vowing never to return.) I refused to kill the mice. I will almost kill myself to save a butterfly. But ants and flies? They took their lives into their own hands when they crossed the threshold of my house. In fact, in rereading that statement, the butterflies are Lacy Peterson, while flies are ugly people and I apparently am the American public.
Thus, I purchased the fly strips and figured that I’d have the problem taken care of in no time. I went home and read the instructions. Unwind with a gentle circular motion. Ok. I pulled the string on it and almost gagged. Out came this intestinal track of sticky sweet-smelling eviscera. Of course, where to hang the trap before one opened it? I however did not. I wandered around the kitchen. The logical place seemed to be from the light in the center of the kitchen, but I would certainly walk too close to it and end up getting dead flies stuck to my face (which, actually, is more preferable than the disgusting fly strip). Every place which seemed logical would either certainly catch me or the cat. Then it went for my breast and I realized that I had mistakenly purchased a strip that was infused with the strongest epoxy known to man. It seemed to be a mix of molasses and some James Bond super stick stuff. I suspect that it could snag 747’s out of the sky. It was then that I realized that stringly my house with this stuff was frought with disaster, and threw the strip in the garbage, where it promptly stuck to the wall and then my fingers as I attempted to stuff it into the bag. Then it somehow wrapped around a discarded box and somehow closed the garbage bag of its own power. It frightened me. It really did. I thing it is really the Blob. Or strips of dead Blob that were turned into jerky. Yes. It’s Blob jerky.
Off topic for just a second, but seriously, the Blob was the best movie monster ever. There was no rationalizing with the Blob. Frankenstein was swayed by pretty girls and kittens. The Mummy could probably have been distracted by a sexy Egyptian woman in a gold bikini and dark fringe bangs. The Wolfman was only a problem one night a month. Cripes, my period does five times the damage of the Wolfman. And Dracula could be taken out by any number of ingenious methods. But the Blob? He was Jell-o, man. There’s no stopping the Blob. The Blob did not need a prop.
But back to the fly strip.
You would think I would have learned my lesson, but you know me. I cannot back down. I opened another strip, but this time did not unwind the entire thing. No. I made sort of a Tower of Death with the tape and set it carefully on the kitchen counter. Take that! By the time I went to bed, there were three flies defending their life on that thing. Ha! Excellent. Hopefully all nine (hundred?) will have committed sticky suicide by the time I get home. Vindication is sweet.
Note to self: use barbeque tongs to throw Tower Of Death away.
Note to self x2: throw away barbeque tongs.
More Gold and SuperGold folks. I love you all. I want to have your babies.
Elsworthy
JessMess818 (who came through on her promise to upgrade last Friday)
And I renewed Quoted’s account too.
You know’ I’m totally getting out easy on this upgrade link lovin’. Marn is writing whole guest entries for people.
Those generous Canadians!
I’d use other adjectives but I’m pretty sure Marn can kick my ass.
In other news, what the heck is up with NBC spinning off Joey Tribiani onto his own sitcom? Because now this means that there is no way he’s going to get together with Rachel. Even though I am seriously against the pairing, I was willing to suspend my disbelief. I WANTED them to be together if only it meant that everyone was paired off in twos, the little Noah’s ark of the sitcom world. You know’ Phoebe and Mike, Monica and Chandler, Rachel and Joey, and Ross and’ umm’. Gunther? I don’t know. Argh. But now no? They’ve been stringing me along with the Joey loves Rachel and then Rachel doesn’t have anything for Joey and now Rachel loves Joey, but now Joey is going to go to freaking California to have some yet-to-be-determined love interest and group of recycled ‘It’s Like, You Know’ actor friends?
This is pissing me off. Worse than when they do the ‘Hey, Monica used to be fat’ ha ha’ fat Monica! Riot! We are a riot!’ jokes. Worse than when they tried to convince us that Chandler isn’t gay. And where did the duck and chicken go? Huh? Huh? We were on a break!!
I think I need some time to myself now. I’ve clearly snapped.
