I’ve got a housefly.
In this house, we most often see giant zeppelin bluebottle flies, the kind that get wedged in between the slats of the blinds and spend the next 72 hours bouncing off the window. These brutes are noisy, but I’ve gotten pretty good at herding them to an open window, so they aren’t usually a problem.
But I don’t have a bluebottle. I’ve got a housefly, a nimble, persistent little housefly who seems to have something of an ear fetish. He keeps hovering about two inches from my earlobe until I take a blind swing and he switches sides. So either Jeff Goldblum is in my living room desperately trying to enlist my aid, or I’ve got a fly who just won’t stay out of my ear canal.
He doesn’t bother landing either, and unless I can pull a Mr. Miyagi, I’m not about to take him down. I suppose I could use Raid for cologne. . . I’m pretty sure that’d do the trick, but I’ve got this thing about spraying my neck and face with poison. Just this odd little quirk I have.
I tried luring him away, either outside or at the very least to another room, but he’s not interested in following me around the house. Maybe he wants a comfy chair or maybe he’s hooked on reality TV. I don’t know, but he ain't moving. I can go make a sandwich in peace or have a few minutes to myself in the “reading room,” but when I get back to the sofa, he’s there, waiting for me. No, not for me. Waiting for my friggin’ ear!
I’ve got a housefly, which means the living room is No Man’s Land. I’m not going to be on the console tonight or catching up on Cool & Trendy Cop Show X. If you need me, I’ll be in the “reading room.”
Of course, I'm pretty sure I left my book in the living room…
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