Dead Fly Walking…Er, Flying

It’s my first full week of summer vacation, which meshes perfectly with Mr. R.’s new work schedule.  No longer rising at 5am, I’m able to wait up for him to return around midnight, sit around and chat about his day.  Imagine watching Jimmy Fallon in real time.  We’re enjoying sleeping late together every morning, luxuriating in the ability to tell our respective alarms to kiss us where the sun don’t shine.  It’s paradise, waking leisurely in the later morning to early afternoon…

Well, it was.  Enter one pesky housefly.  Um-hmm, the old Musca domestica.  And this one is no ordinary fly, oh no!  He apparently has radar and psychic abilities.  He knows things, man.  He recognizes that moment when we just fall asleep and chooses that exact moment to dive bomb our faces, zipping away as we fruitlessly swat at him.  And he can disappear.  We look around and he’s nowhere.  He waits and watches…

Suddenly, I feel like Walter White in that episode of Breaking Bad, madly swatting the air like a crazy person.  This morning I dozed with a fly swatter in my hand.  He’d buzz our heads and I’d use the blue plastic Excalibur to slice through the air, but to no avail.

But know this, my friends.  His tiny little ass is grass.  For we will not let some mutant spawn of Satan ruin our summer.


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