No one PLANS on growing up to be a Serial Killer

The last time I got in a physical fight was in sixth grade.  I had a pretty decent streak of about 21 years that were filled with non-violent conflict resolution.

Then Friday night happened.

I guess I should really start with the garbage can in the garage.  Somebody thought it would be brilliant to have a garbage can next to the door to the house, inside the garage.  This would serve as a visual reminder to get your darn apple juice boxes outta the flippin' minivan before I lose my mind take care of the things that need disposing before you come into the house.  This was an astute plan.  It mostly worked.  Then, summer came.  And with it, maggots.

Somebody Else was being resourceful and ghetto-rigged a piece of cardboard over the top of the garbage can to deter flies from filling the garbage with their demon spawn, but didn't tell Somebody the purpose of said cardboard, and so when she ran into it with her arm for the third time she was all, "not this junk again," and she removed the cardboard, placing it responsibly in the recycling bin.

The flies had a field day.  And since their maternity ward was directly adjacent to the door to our home, every few hours when we would open the door, they would politely accept in their annoying fly language, "Thank you.  We would LOVE to come in."

I hate flies.

One morning I awoke to ten of them on the kitchen window.  Dude.  Brian thinks the best method of fly control is to use the Dustbuster.  While this approach takes the least skill and effort, I am now convinced there is a little fly colony trapped inside my Dustbuster just waiting with bated breath for me to empty it.  I will crack it open and be attacked by the plotting masses of germ infested vermin.

Soon, I'd had enough.  It was time for flypaper.

It was really hard for me to buy flypaper, mainly because of the serial killer stigma flypaper evokes.  I mean, I have seen Silence of the Lambs.

(A tangent just for fun? The main lesson I took away from Silence of the Lambs was: don't be fat. Only fat girls get kidnapped, thrown in a hole, and starved so a serial killer can make a dress from their skin.  Yeah, Hollywood, the message isn't so subtle after all.)

But I digress.  Silence of the Lambs?  Oh yeah.  When Clarice entered Buffalo Bill's (totally a fictional serial killer) house, I thought, "This guy needs some flypaper."  And?  He puts moths down his victims throats, so, not anything like just like flies. (See the connection?)

To recap, flypaper = serial killer.

I was hoping the people at Lowe's knew I wasn't a serial killer as I was buying flypaper, but I wore a twinset and pearls and took my kids just in case.  Then I caved to non-existent peer pressure and went through self-checkout so no one would have to aid me in my serial killer paraphernalia purchase.

If purchasing flypaper isn't gross enough, you have to open it, which is a sick process I will save for Brian in the future.  Thankfully, even though the flypaper remains 100% fly-free, I'm pretty sure it worked as a deterrent because the flies have vacated our home.  They probably had a little fly meeting that went:"It's serious fellas.  Girlfriend bought flypaper."  And then all the little flies murmured to one another in distress.  And got the heck out of Dodge.

...except...

Girlfriend got pwned.

The flies, in an effort to escape the horrendous heat wave, had really moved to the basement, where I never spend any time unless it happens to be Hosanna's birthday in a few days and I am refinishing a piece of furniture for her (shh, still a secret).  This is where I discovered I got played.  Flypaper? These flies are playing on a whole 'nother level.  Specifically, the basement.

It is rough trying to paint with flies buzzing around your head and landing on your freshly painted surfaces.  I just know that if I got out a magnifying glass I would be able to see little tiny fly foot prints jacking up what was, admittedly, an awesomely sanded desk top.

I could feel my anger simmering, but was trying to keep it in check.  I may have spoken out loud to the flies, but apparently they don't understand that a disgruntled, "Dude.  FLY.",  means "get out of my house or die."

When a fly landed in my can of paint, I responded in exasperation, "Ok, Dude, whatever.  Stay there. I hope you drown."  But then I had to fish the fly out of the paint.  And I was tired of painting.  And Burger King just introduced sweet potato fries and a brownie sundae which I am taking as a personal attack on my quest to lose those five pounds.  And, seriously, do I really need any more reasons?


The next poor fly that gave me opportunity was going to pay for my frustration.  It didn't take long before a fly landed five inches from my foot, mocking me as his brothers plotted elsewhere to take over the paint stirrer.

Out of nowhere, the Beastie Boys started playing Sabotage (in my head) and my body switched to slow motion.  I (slooooowly) brought my knee up, making a face that was all

"This is the face of a Killer, Bella." - Edward Cullen

and then (still in slow motion) I stomped the crap out of that fly.  (I resumed normal motion, breathing hard because I was angry and from DETROIT the suburbs.)  Then I chanted "Whose house?  MY HOUSE, FLIES," at the other flies who where staring in horror at my ruthlessness. 

So?  In conclusion, don't mess with me.  I may not be a serial killer, but I can take care of myself.