I am prone to plagues, apparently. First there were the boils.
Then the locusts.
Then the fleas.
Now - the fruit flies.
The day we left for Sports Camp, I locked all the doors and windows and headed east with Dan and the kids. The only creature left inside my house was Jasper...
...and two fruit flies.
Now, when a mommy and daddy fruit fly love each other very much, and they want to express that love...you know.
There is a reason that scientists use fruit flies in genetics labs. The reason is that fruit flies multiply approximately 23,457,148 times faster than the busiest of rabbits. When I walked back into my house last Saturday afternoon, I walked into a dark, softly buzzing haze of hundreds and hundreds of fruit flies. Swarms.
There were fruit flies canoodling over my bowl of onions, wining and dining on the bathroom mirror, getting busy on the coffee pot. They were EVERYWHERE, a full-blown infestation.
I spent the next 72 hours attempting to de-bug my house. The result? There are still fruit flies everywhere and my suitcase is still sitting in the hallway.
I tried setting up traps. The flies bred on top of them.
I tried flying insect spray. They laughed in my face.
I tried a fan blowing over my trash can and counter tops. These flies do not discriminate. They're just as happy to procreate on the living room couch.
I tried traps, spray, fans, drain cleaner, frantic scrubbing, produce-less meals, and, eventually, crazed swatting. In fits of rage I wielded my fly swatter like a samurai sword thinking really awful, violent thoughts like,
"I missed him! Maybe I at least took off his wing and he'll die a slow death."
"Maybe the gale-force-winds from my swatter stunned him and he'll die from shock.
"If I didn't kill him, maybe I at least damaged his reproductive system!"
I realize that this is crazy thinking, but it helps me to feel better about the way I've spent the last 3 hours.
For the record, other things that do not work are:
-getting angry at the flies -cussing at the flies -screaming at the flies -threatening the flies -berating the flies with sarcasm
On Tuesday night the hoards were so intrusive (and I was so exasperated) that we ate dinner outside. As soon as I sat down I sighed with pleasure and said to Dan,
"It's so peaceful and bug-free!"
That is the state of my house. That a summer evening - in Alabama - seems comparatively bug-free. Not good.
On Wednesday, Madeline, Dan, and I wrote a song about killing fruit flies. We were inspired. (It's almost as good as my tube sock poem.) It's sung to a clappy, bluegrass beat because when you crush the flies to death between your hands, it makes a nice clapping sound.
We are clapping on fruit flies, I am happy when one dies. Whoever kills the most gets a priiiiiize! Man, I hate these little fruit flies.
I will kill them with my hands On the table where they land. They are more than I can staaaaaand! Man, I hate these little fruit flies.
They are such a tiny size, And they have big creepy eyes. Cannot kill them tho' I tryyyyyyy! Man, I hate these little fruit flies.
It's not helping.
After trying every single natural remedy that the vast internet has to offer, it's time to resort to desperate measures. My next course of action is to drop an H-bomb on them. The fruit fly equivalent to an H-bomb - chill out, NEIGHBORS. With six little cans of Spectricide I plan to kill all the fruit flies in a 2-mile-radius and irradiate their larvae. I'm going to remove my cat, seal up all my food, remove the kids' toys and poison the ever-loving snot out of my house.
It is the only way.