To set the scene, last summer and well into October, we had a serious fly problem in these parts. Something about how it just wasn't cold enough last winter to kill them off or other such crap. It was plenty cold. But, whatever, fly problem is really all you need to know.
It didn't matter how often we yelled at the boys to, "Close the darn door now!" they left it open. Or, even when they didn't, hoards of flies flocked in when we let the dog out. It was gross. Eating was a somewhat disgusting experience involving one hand waving continuously over our meals while we used the other to quickly shovel dinner into our mouths.
Eventually, Troy had had enough and he went to the store to purchase fly paper. I promise you, it repelled the flies. They flew everywhere except onto the paper.
In the quarter of a year that we've owned that fly trap, we caught exactly two flies on it. At one point, when it was located behind our kitchen sink, it started to fall over. Instinctively, I reached out to stop it and spent the next twenty minutes trying to get fly glue off my hand.
About a month ago, I moved the trap on top of the refrigerator. On more than one occasion I thought that I should throw it away since the flies are long gone. Today, as I was emptying the contents of the vacuum cleaner into the trash can, the universe aligned with the powers of the underworld and a massive catastrophe ensued.
I still have no idea how it happened. As I shook the giant golden retriever hairball from the canister, I suddenly felt something hit my head. Reaching back to see what had landed on me, my hand stuck instantly to the thick, sticky goo of the fly trap.
Only me, folks. Remembering just how long it took to clean my hand off that day, I was quickly aware of what an epic dilemma I found myself in. So I did what any rational 31-year-old with a decent set of coping skills would do. I burst into tears. Before my eyes flashed scenes of me walking up to the hair stylist with a fly trap stuck to my head, asking her to do whatever she could. Inevitably, I would leave with a buzz cut. "Troy," I sobbed, "look. Oh! Oh no! The fly trap (unintelligible crying) head--oh!"
But that man is my knight in shining armor. He sat me down in the bathroom while both boys brought things they thought might help. The tub of margarine. A pair of scissors. I suddenly had a moment of clarity. If a buzz was certain, I was going to have photo documentation of why. I stopped crying and insisted that Troy get the camera. "That's why I love you," he said as he ran to get the camera.
I washed my hair twice and it still feels oily. I'm not complaining though. Trust me, there's nothing like a head full of fly paper glue to make you appreciate greasy hair.
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