We got lucky this summer. We hardly had a fly in the house, despite the little gap between the bottom of the screen door and the sash. And despite Dan's bad habit of standing in the doorway with the door open wide while he tries to decide if he should go out or stay in.
Well, our luck has changed. The flies have now commenced moving in like college freshmen. And somebody must have told them there was free beer and pizza at our place.
You can't even sit down to read the Dairy Star without a fly buzzing about your head.
So, out came the fly swatter. (I actually had to search a little to find it.)
And the swatting began.
We're a couple weeks into the war on flies now and my swatting is in top form. I'm like Venus Williams with a fly swatter. Except I'm not wearing one of those little outfits that could just as well pass for an undergarment.
I've got a forehand and a backhand and an overhead (for the flies on the ceiling).
I take a swing. Ace! I step back, adjust my racquet, er, swatter, and look around for the next one. And the next one. And the next one. It seems like break point never comes. The flies just keep coming.
I've even got my own cheering section (Dan) who's all too quick to tell me when I miss one. Don't worry, I tell him, Mama will get it the next time.
Eventually, the indoor insect population declines enough to sit down and read the paper.
But they'll be back.
And if this tennis season doesn't come to an end pretty soon, I'm going to develop tennis elbow.
I think maybe I should leave the swinging to Ms. Williams. Does anyone know if Venus Flytraps make good houseplants?
P.S. What do you think of the new cartoon header? I'd love to know.