Dead on: 80 dead fly creatures. In the kitchen alone (together). We could be talking Guinness Book here (someone get on that, please?) Insane! I counted ‘em. (More insanity!) 80 is a lot, right? I mean, this could be one of the few times anyone ever has even bothered to count that far towards 100. It’s a LOT of gross is what I am mainly saying. Scale of 1 to gross? Pretty-damned-gross, people.
As for photographic evidence: ugh, don’t make me do that to you. ‘Cos I will. Yep, I would go there. THAT is how I feel about proving points.
To compound this terrible, terrible, shocking reality: another member of this household (who shall remain nameless at this point because of the shame of this situation in general terms) – is absurdly furious about the whole thing. And not just furious about the flies – furious about the fact that I don’t spend all of my day, every day, getting the situation under control. (Especially, now that I have some time to get situations under control). Like, it’s MY fault?
I mean, really? Seriously? It’s not like I’ve put word out on the street: Yo, flyguys, come fly with me and be all at this house we live in.
This, THIS, is a naturally occurring phe-nom-e-non. At least on par with Mammatus clouds, that’s what this situation is. (Not that I’ve ever really seen existence of said cloud activity, but you can kill some time at http://weathersavvy.com/Q-Clouds_Mammatus.html if you, like me, have some time on your hands).
X-Files, be damned. Mythbusters get on this. Phenomenon is happening right in this house. Every day. The chosen ones: that is what we are.
Ok, ok, so we does live back in the bushy parts of Australia now – and bush=fly, hot bush=lots of fly. And right now there is a lot of hot bush surrounding us (do not, I said…do not, go there). Creeps.
And ok, ok, kitchen room was in a horrible, mean mood-state this morning after a very big night (more on that tomorrow perhaps when the red wine induced haze has cleared). But, it has nothing – or at least not…. that much – to do with that.
Just… let’s not think about that… because this problem is an occurrence independent of that problem… often.
So, now (that we’re clear): Let’s get back to the whole-lotta-fly-in-a-single-room-short-space-of-time problem at hand.
These particular creeps… or grown up maggots as I have started calling them today, were in place before the big hand hit half the day gone. And, putting my feelings of bewildered wonderment aside, sometime around abouts 2pm I was counting them. (I’m serious people; I have some time on my hands for some moments. That is just a factual statement).
Directors Cut aside, let’s fast forward the boring bits: fly spray – check. flyscreens – landlord doesn’t believe in them. Close all the doors and windows – are you kidding me? I suspect I suffer lack of oxygen to the brain as it is.
So, you are thinking, (actually, probably I am alone by myself in solitary confinement on this one): What does a girl do in a situation like this? Well, correct me if I’m being inappropriate or misguided, but this is what I think my sensible options could be after having thought about it (a little, not a lot):
1) Delegate: Give Evie and Augie (they are dogs – so don’t get crane your neck too far to examine what I may be capable of inflicting on tiny people) a treat every time they catch the fly that dares to fly itself in the door (obviously hell bent in taking advantage of the proximity of the kitchen room). Anyways, these dogs (that are kind of like children anyway) seem to get a kick out of catching flies when their attention is not focused elsewhere, so it’s not that stupid to think it could be possible. (You heard it here first: I ain’t stupid).
Except: No way in the history of nasty supermarket superpowers is there ever enough of the doggy smack that is Schmackos (they don’t call it that for no good reason) this side of Bendigo to make this a really, plausible and viable option.
2) Involves my own capacities: Research methods of how-to-keep-a-fly-at-bay until I have bled Google dry and am offered (because of my inevitable awesome expertise) an interview on The Project (talk to the hand ACA: I’m not interested in your gutters). (BTW, I refuse to appear on The Project on a night Steve Price is on. I do want Charlie Pickering to be there though. Shut up. I am not being a diva. Not asking for fruit platters with sides of steak in my dressing room here. Just putting it out there and up front so we are all clear about who I think the cool kids are. Anyways, generally speaking, I am flexible with my contracting).
Except: I have the attention span of a gnat at the moment – and Research: I’m sorry honey – I thought we were “taking a break”. We need time and space man, I’ll see you in Feb.
3) Turn to those who really care: Get some sound and solid direction from the good ladies of CWA. (That’s Country Women’s Association for those of you not hip to the early-acronym-lingo…or you know, not up with Australian icons).
See, I knew talking through this problem would be a help. Talking about problems is not over-rated after all (looks like I may not regret going down the Social Work path after all). Because…
Number 3, is I think, not a bad idea. Even for me. Think about it gang. CWA is all of the following, and much (much) more:
- From the Country – and we all know Country people are good people (well, with the exception of idiots, a.k.a. Bob Katter and the like).
- Are women – and women are tops (probably a few exceptions here too, but I’m hoping you’re happy to generalise. Visualisation helps. Think..um.. Jane Addams, Mother Teresa, Aung San Suu Kyi, … or one of those other I’ll-just-go-save-the-world-quietly Nobel Peace Prize Winning lady peoples).
- Are a group of women – and women who get their heads together are a powerful force, an agent of change, for the greater good. See how I’m leaning here? Whistling to myself. Example: CWA
Bringing me back to point. A good old fashioned letter posted with a stamp and all should get me some of what I’m after.
(Dear CWA ladies,
I have a real issue with flies. I have seen many of your missionaries at work on other matters. Scones and cakes mainly. There is a reason I know how good you are, is all I’m saying.
Now, about these flies….
Pretty please with jam on top,
Darls from Daylesford
Ps. Do you think Maggie Beer and Margaret Fulton are as downright cute as I do?
Pps. Would really love it if that CWA lady who guest-starred on Masterchef were to hit reply, personally. To my letter here.)
I have some collateral too. If they have secrets about solutions for this stuff, they are especially going to find it hard to resist me if I tell them I am a lady from the country just like them, now, are they?! I WILL have my way with them. You’ll see.
Oh, and whilst I’m at it, I’m going to throw in a santa sack of other things that are causing me anxiety type emotions on a daily basis:
What will leave the granite benchtop shiny streak-free clean? What will get the red wine stain off the carpet that SOMEBODY (nameless) in this household caused last night? What will get the bleachy mark from either dog pee, or my inept attempt to fix it, off the same carpet? And, the big one: What will cure the big, ugly, burn streak that is etched on (my soul, and) bathroom number one timber bench top. (I have some problems with the amount I like incense and candles, ok?)
Members of this household: we have been here not much more than 80 days. Now, I know that’s a LOT in fly terms – but go tell that to the real estate industry. I mean, we probably haven’t even maxed the cooling off.
Ok, woah up before you all make me panic some more. I’m already feeling anxious with all the painful memories this is causing (will need a bex and a good lie down before sharing feelings regarding a landlord-experience from recent history).
This letter to those CWA ladies needs to be written. STAT.