Because the sun shone on Sunday, we had our back door open.
Because our back door was wide open, a circus of barefooted children zipped in the house at intervals and snagged triangles of watermelon.
Because the door was still open, flies the size of quarters trotted right on in. And partied in the windows. All day. And the next.
Flocks of flies.
Because that’s gross, we scrounged for last summer’s fly swatter. And found it. And then stood back as my left-handed husband spanked the things from window to floor with single-arm karate moves we’d never seen.
Because he smacked a few, our windows were stained with fly guts and our carpet was speckled with bodies.
Because that’s enough to gag, we needed a better solution.
Something effective. Manageable. Fun.
Maybe not fun.
And then it came. A solution.
A friend said, “have you tried squirting the flies with vodka?”
And I said, “No. We only drink that stuff.”
Wait. That’s not what I said.
I said, “Vodka? Really?”
And she said, “yeah, vodka or rubbing alcohol. Just put it in a bottle and squirt ‘em.”
And then she said, “They get alcohol poisoning and in a few minutes stop moving at all. Then you just pick ‘em up with a paper towel. Way less messy.”
Between you and me, friend…that’s not 409 in our 409 bottle.
The fly party is over.