A recent post by fellow blogger Kim Scaravelli at Stuff My Dog Taught Me sure hit home. She wrote about the ultra-annoying fruit flies that have been driving her to distraction. While she claimed they were mocking her, I am certain the evil little bastards in my apartment are more devious and are out to, at best drive me right round the twist, and at worst do me in.
All summer long they have been making themselves right at home in my home. I cannot for the life of me recall inviting them, regardless they arrived. They hang out at kitchen garbage containers and have a special affection for cans waiting to be recycled. Beer cans are a real treat for them. A bag of empty, rinsed Coors Light cans is evidently something akin to nirvana for these bugs. Of course all is fine until Muggins here drops in another can, something I do once or twice a day – okay, maybe more than once or twice. This disruption of what I assume is their after beer slumber sets off a veritable cloud of fruit flies from the recycling bag. Angry and perhaps hungover, they set about making my next beer a misery.
Time was I could sit in my living room on a summer’s evening with the air conditioner cranked up and enjoy a cold beer. Now I have to maintain one hand over the top of the glass at all times lest the kamikaze-like flies descend on my beer in one last hurrah. Digging dead or almost dead fruit flies out of my glass had become a nightly task. Then it was pointed out to me that having no idea where they had been before they went for a swim in my beer, dumping the glass would probably be best. Sad but true. I realize I could drink the beer straight from the can, but then I would not be able to see if there were any swimmers and my imagination would run wild making things even worse.
One night while reading in bed before turning off the light and getting some sleep I experienced perhaps the most personal attack yet when a fruit fly zoomed into my left ear. I thought I was having a stroke as I could hear him buzzing and feel him fluttering about in what felt like the middle of my cranium. He repeatedly banged against my tympanic membrane. In that confined space it sounded like a Harley Davidson; the more I tried to pry it out, the farther in it went. I imagine it was not a whole lot of fun for him either. Careful application of a Q-Tip was required to extricate the corpse from my aural canal. I still believe a small film crew from some insect news network was on hand, much like the removal of trapped miners draws attention.
I was sure that once the hot weather was replaced with more seasonable autumn temperatures these little guys would make a hasty retreat. Well, there is no need for the air conditioner now, but I don’t see any real reduction in the number of fruit flies trying to kill me. Could they be wearing sweaters and gloves?