Wednesday, September 25, 2013

I hate the bats, I mean fruit flies, hanging from my ceiling

I looked up this morning in my kitchen, and immediately felt the motherly instinct to swoop up Anderson for fear that my bat-sized fruit flies may just carry him off like To-to was by the flying monkeys.

I am so stinkin done. I have done the vinegar trick. Caught a few. Others seemed to grow larger while laughing in my face. I had one other infestation a few years back, and the cidar vinegar totally whiped them out in days. This brood is highly evolved, too smart to fall for traps, and is telling its friends and family members that the Arthur kitchen is a happening place. And, by the way, - the damn things say - bring your suitcase, cuz this party's gonna last awhile.

And, don't ya know, the woman way back in 2000 who gave me my first lesson on how to run them out of a kitchen (I had been house-sitting for their family while they vacationed and I had slowly observed the haze of life everytime I turned on the faucet... but I did what I do when problems arise I don't know how to solve : nothing. And when this family returned, Deanne sweetly took me under her wing to present the ole vinegar-in-a-shallow-bowl-with-holes-poked-in-lid trick. I felt embaressed and enlightened all at the same time) is visiting us from out of town THIS VERY WEEKEND.

She's gonna think all I've done over the past thirteen years is raise kids. And fruit flies.

Lord may they smell tastier fruit or be lured by trickier vinegar traps in someone else's kitchen before Friday. (the flies, that is, not my kids) (although that would be fine, too).

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