For the last week I have kept the vacuum cleaner in the
kitchen, hose cocked and ready. Every 30
minutes or so I get a nervous and grumpy look from my dog as I fire up
the noisy machine and brandish my wand.
Sometimes my husband or daughter helped by standing at my side to
point here and there while I, holding my tubular weapon deftly in my right
hand, swoop and parry , sucking up all the tiny bodies in my path.
You see, we have been suffering from what my 13 year-old calls
the “Insect Apocalypse from which we are all Gonna Die!” In other words, we are battling a
particularly nasty plague of annoying little fruit flies.
Of course we always expect the nuisance of those random,
zig-zag buzzing buggars who zoom in on the scent of the perfectly ripe banana
or freshly poured glass of red wine in the late summer months, but this is
NOVEMBER and their numbers had been growing exponentially! This was far beyond the normal occasional
clapping of hands to catch the one hovering over the bowl of berries.
We reached the point where we were taking out the garbage
and sterilizing the kitchen every couple of hours. I put the garlic rope in the fridge and the
bamboo plant outside in hopes of ridding the house of the bug breeding-ground. No change.
Still a constant influx of tiny fruit flies to laugh in our faces and
spit on our meals. Even the cats and dog
had begun to swat and snap at the annoying, face-crowding insects.
Now, I have always believed myself a humanitarian. I insist upon freeing spiders, houseflies and
bees that I had humanely catch in a cup against the wall or window rather than
smushing them or leaving them to die.
But this swarm of miniscule, food-loving buggars had me researching and
building deadly traps made of vinegar and dish-soap, and I
found myself
celebrating each dead body I found floating in the toxic mixture. I even fantasized about putting one of these
fruit-fly-attracting concoctions into the open microwave oven to lure a cloud
of tiny-winged offenders into the appliance and WHAM – slam the door shut and
set the timer for 30 beautiful seconds during which I was sure I would see them
sparkle and and explode like itty-bitty fireworks.
Then two nights ago we identified what we were sure was the
breeding ground for this plague – a houseplant perched on the top of the
kitchen cupboards. Of course, we
thought, the roots were rotting and the tiny flies were breeding and laying
eggs in the rotting roots…right? We banished
the poor plant to the side porch, shut the door and waited for the scourge of
flies to dwindle.
By morning the number of bugs seemed to have waned and I was
so excited that I nearly pulled a George Dubble-ya and declared “Mission
Accomplished” (thank goodness I avoided
THAT embarrassment). But once the sun rose above the hills it was
clear that the six-legged demons had merely slept in. Eventually they arrived to annoy us in full
force, as usual.
I cried “Uncle” and began my weekly cleaning routine, and
that is when I make an exciting, yet disgusting, discovery. I found EXACTLY where the late-night insect
orgies had been happening and was able to put a stop to it immediately. The bag of potatoes in the bottom of the
pantry had become a shameful fruit-fly brothel and the off-spring of this
debauchery was wreaking havoc upon our home life. A brisk removal of the soft bag of nastiness,
some scrubbing and a few more traps should end our agony soon enough. Although there are still flying remnants of
this hell zig-zagging our home, soon we should be able to relax and eat a meal
without clapping out rhythms over our dinner plates, and I can sleep without
vengeful dreams of creative torture devices for tiny insects.
As for that wrongly accused houseplant? I brought it back into the house and
apologized profusely. Tropical plants
don’t appreciate nights outdoors in November in the Pacific Northwest. I don’t yet know whether I have been
forgiven, but I will know soon if it chooses to wilt and turn brown in spite. Time will tell.