As in Fly Trap. Or maybe even Lord of the Flies. I hate those annoying little poopy flies.
Living in Reno, I have learned that flies are basically extinct here. Thank God. But it’s the flies that make this story so incredible.
The other day, when I was standing at my kitchen sink, I heard this low buzzing sound, like the subtle but creepy noise of a beekeeper’s hangout. As I looked up, I saw them.
At least 37 or 84 dung-born flies, covering the inside of my window screen.
It creeped me out, big time.
My first question was, “What the…?”
My second and tenth questions were, “Where did they come from? What is going on here? Isn’t this Reno?” Blah, blah, blah.
Now, if I knew there was some kind of pig farm around the neighborhood, like where I grew up in Iowa, I’d probably be overjoyed at this disgusting scene. The flies would indicate that Soon-To-Be-Bacons were being raised somewhere nearby. This would be perfectly acceptable and welcomed in my world. I would salivate at the sight of flies.
This was not the case, however, and I nearly baby-barfed in my mouth.
As I walked back toward the dining room with wonder, I looked at the back screen door. There were even more of those thousand-eyed creatures, covering the screen.
My next question: “What the…?”
This was super freaky.
So I immediately put an APB out on Facebook because I’m too lazy to research things myself. Besides, I have some fabulously nerdy friends who love to be consulted about the bizarre things that happen in life, giving their expertise on unusual phenomenon so they can show off their strange knowledge of the why’s and how’s of nature. I needed some answers, and quick. FB is really good for things like that.
“Am I Lord of the Flies? Where are all of these disgusting things coming from? I don’t live in Iowa on a pig farm, you stupid little poopfaces. I am in Reno. Reno, you thousand-eyed creeps! Is there a pile of manure that I didn’t clean up somewhere in my house, where your little babies wiggle around and eventually infest my kitchen? Seriously, there were like 46 of them on my screen INSIDE my kitchen window and 62 more inside my back screen door. Is it El Nino? La Nina? Mitt Romney? Somebody help a girl out!”
I waited for the firestorm of responses. My friends on Facebook never let me down. They are my lifeline.
Thirty minutes later, I still hadn’t received ONE SINGLE RESPONSE. Not even a “like” or a “Poor Emily.” Just a simple acknowledgment would have been nice.
Where was the loyalty? I felt abandoned and therefore defriended everyone after I bitched openly in a comment about how nobody cared about me.
But the Universe cared. It always cares, even after I find out who my true friends aren’t.
The Universe was the one who led me outside at that moment. The Universe was also the one who placed my weirdy neighbors in the house next door: the ones who I swear run a meth lab with the Old Toothless Grandma, who stands outside the secret entrance to her lair in the back of the house, chain smoking all day long and finding crotchety reasons to complain about my kids when they say “please” and “thank you” and “have a good day, Ma’am.” Those neighbors.
Thankfully, the Universe placed them next to me for the sake of me, and me alone, on this day: The Day the Flies Decided to Accost my House.
As I walked around the corner outside, I spied Old Summer Teeth (Some Are Here, Some Are There). I quickly looked away. Best not to make eye contact. I started whistling nonchalantly. Unfortunately, she was waiting for this moment. She yelled out in her raspy man-voice: “HEY!”
I quickly turned to speed-walk back into the house. I thought perhaps she wanted to confront me about our little episode a few weeks ago when I went all Mama Bear on her, finally fed up with her wicked ways of treating my kids.
She did her rendition of running after me, which was kind of like Egor, and yelled, “Hey! Hey, You! Excuse me? Hey!” I simply couldn’t ignore her. That would have been against my people-pleasing nature.
“Oh. Who, me? Hi! How can I help you?”
“Um, did you know that you have two bags full of garbage outside of your laundry room door, laying there, broken open?”
What? She’s crazy! I just can’t stop looking at her teeth. “Uh, no. I don’t think I do. I never use that door. My garbage can is on the other side of the house.”
“Well, they’re there, trust me. I just saw them today because when I came outside to smoke,” she inhaled wheezily on her cigarette, “there were flies everywhere.”
And this is different than any other time you come outside to smoke because, why?
Then it dawned on me. Flies?
I sheepishly walked around the corner of the side of the house, and sure enough, Old Meth Teeth was telling the truth.
The only reason I knew they were garbage bags was because the Old Hag said so. It looked more like a giant moving mass of black. The flies were smothering the pile.
I tasted bile on my tongue. Where the heck did these bags come from? Then I remembered that I had splurged on some housecleaners two weeks earlier while I was out of town roughing it at Camp Kill-A-Critter. They must have put them there to take to the main garbage later, but forgot.
Obviously, the fly mass was under my kitchen window. Why hadn’t I caught a whiff of this heap earlier? It made me nauseous.
I had to move them. Pronto. I kept saying “kitties, puppies, butterflies” over and over again as I hauled them to their proper resting place. I looked like Pig Pen streaking across the lawn with a mass of bugs swarming around me.
Mystery solved, obviously. Thank you, Universe, for looking after me. I vowed to friend request It as soon as I hopped on Facebook the next time. I also had to forgive the grandma for all of her transgressions and thank her for her smoking habit. Thank God for meth dealers. It was very humbling, to say the least.
I still had a fly problem, though. They wouldn’t disappear. No, Devon, this had nothing to do with my food-crusted counter top. It was the housecleaner’s fault. The housecleaners made my house disgusting. How ironic, don’t you think?
I kept wishing upon every star for three nights that they’d just gradually move on to the neighbor’s house, but they didn’t. So finally, I set my animal killing instincts to good use by paying my two daughters and Thing One and Thing Two, the neighbor boys, to do the dirty work. I am the Godfather, they are my minions.
Here were my supplies:
The Guidos got really excited when I told them they would make a “killing” at a whopping 5 cents a fly. There were a lot of flies and they quickly saw their money making potential. They got prepared. They knew that their Zombie Apocalypse training was finally going to pay off.
They went to work.
Within 10 minutes, every single fly had been murdered. I was very proud of my protégé and my adopted Things. This murder spree brought me amazing amounts of sick pleasure. All told, after carcass clean up, they walked away with $12. With expenditures and labor, I came out even.
Yes, I totally got even. Screw you, creepy flies. The next time you show up at my house, there had better be Baby Bacons nearby.
Bugged Out Blessings,