Warning: I may resort to a tiny bit of exaggeration in the following post.
Someone let a fly in our house yesterday. I started off today by squashing him. He wasn't sitting conveniently on the floor; I had to end his life on my kitchen counter. So I used a handy Clorox wipe to disinfect the murder scene. [Note to homemakers: these Clorox wipes come in handy not only for de-germing after fly guts have been spilled, but also to remove suspicious-looking smudges from bathroom light switches; sanitizing of doorknobs, keyboards, faucet handles, telephones, and refrigerator handles if someone (or everyone) in the house has a runny nose; and quick touch-ups when you've recently cleaned the bathroom but some boy in the family neglects to aim and decorates behind the toilet seat.]
As I stepped outside to empty the trash, including the dead fly, I noticed a cricket carcass beneath my kitchen window. There were two alarming things about this cricket carcass. One, it was enormous. Like, it's thorax was the length of my index finger. Two, its cause of death appeared to be getting stepped on. I'm not a Crime Scene Investigator by trade, but I can tell when an insect has been squashed versus when it has been peacefully poisoned, for instance. This was a squashing. Who squashed a giant cricket right outside my kitchen window? It is as I've always suspected: there are OFTEN prowlers right outside my back windows at night. Thankfully, they aren't psychotic prowlers, they are investigative. They are conducting research on the evening life of stay-at-home moms and they need to do this secretively so that they don't sway the outcomes. For instance, in my natural state, I will be wearing my newsprint jammies, no bra, and my hair will be frizzy and out of control sporting a ponytail kink. I will have a look of deep consternation and a deep crease between my eyebrows. I will be discovered sneaking a string cheese from the frig and combing the pantry for leftover Easter candy. I might even itch my rear end. Conversely, if I knew I was being watched, I would likely still have on the newsprint jammies but I'd put on a good bra, wind my hair into a messy but strategically arranged bun, dab on some lipgloss, comb my eyebrows, and attempt to look breezy, content, and happy to wipe the countertops and arrange the bouquet of delicate wildflowers on the table. Anyhoo - now that I know I'm being watched, help me to remember to wear the bra! And someone tell Kevin to send me a bouquet of delicate wildflowers.
After gingerly coaxing an applesauce carton under the dead cricket, and disposing of it, I went inside again where my dog immediately yakked all over the dining room floor. Again. This is nearly a hobby of hers. As I cleaned it up with those Clorox wipes (yet again!) --- I was informed by my eight year-old that the barfing happened because the dog had eaten a large bird dropping off the patio. (Is anyone still reading this? So far I've mentioned about 2,200 very disgusting things in these two and a half paragraphs! - You must be the type who can't look away from a train wreck or else your life is remarkably like mine.) I was beckoned out onto the patio to examine the bird dropping and found it to be pretty standard as bird droppings go. How am I supposed to know if that caused the barf? Furthermore, why should I care? I have no suspicions that birds are sabotaging my dog intentionally, or secretly watching me - and if my neurosis gets that advanced, someone please report me.
The fly was dealt with. Cricket disposed of. Dog barf wiped up. At that moment, my five year-old called me to assist him in his bathroom duties. I know what those investigative prowlers are probably thinking: "He's FIVE YEARS OLD! Let him wipe his own hiney!" The problem is after a morning of fly guts, dead insects, dog barf, and bird droppings, I don't even notice that I'm wiping a hiney, no matter how old it is. It doesn't even register.
 | |
| newsprint jammies, Clorox wipes, flyswatter |
