Tuesday, July 19, 2011

The Fly Hunter.

My husband Bill is the yin to my yang. The tic to my tac. The hip to my hop.

As I have mentioned in the past, he is a very calm, even-tempered man who is rarely rattled.

Sometimes I hate this quality about him.

Even though I adore him with every fiber of my being.

I hate it at times, because whereas I have the tendency to freak out lose my cool in tense situations, I look over at him, and a cooler head prevails.

And I hate looking like the cuckoo bird.

But I get over it. Because we balance each other out.

We play our marital roles quite nicely, and it just works. Because, really. It's not like we could both go around this planet spazzing out at the littlest thing. That would just be exhausting. Fortunately, he stepped up and offered to play the role of Calmy O'Logical in our marriage, because that role? Is so not me.

Of course, I am not saying that he is a perfect man. It's just that there are not many things that ruffle his feathers.

Except.

When it comes.

To this.

Yo. I'm kinda BZZZZZED and it's all because, this is how I do it.

It's a housefly. A Musca Domestica for the fancy people.

Thanks to well-meaning, but forgetful shorties, whose arms only seem to work in the forward direction and are able to open a door, but cannot close it again, our home is rife with flies. 

Rife.

The incessant, elusive buzzing is constant summertime white noise at our house. Perhaps I am just used to it, but it doesn't exactly rattle my cage. I have four kids. Clearly, there are bigger cage rattlers in my day than houseflies.

I pick my battles.

Besides, why should I spend my day chasing houseflies when I am married to The Fly Hunter? He hears a buzz and grabs a newspaper. It's very Pavlov's dog.

He stalks his prey through every square foot of our home if needed. Darkness is his friend, because he knows that the Musca Domestica is attracted to light. My husband often likes to remind me of the day he stalked a bumblebee that had the misfortune of flying into our home. He followed the bee around the house, waited for the right moment, clapped his hands together fiercely and killed it mid-air without getting stung. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

People? It is the stuff of which suburban legends are made.

Last evening, Bill came home after a hard day's work, changed out of his suit, and came back down to the kitchen to chat with me. As I was in the middle of a riveting story about how I picked up the boys from Cub Scout camp at 3:30 p.m. and took them to the McDonald's drive-thru with the intent of cooling us all down with a snack of $.59 vanilla ice cream cones, but instead I ordered fries and burgers for the older boys because they were starving and exhausted from all the camp shenanigans, (Yes. McDonald's for a snack at 3:45 p.m. on a Monday. Don't judge me. It happens.) I realized that my guy was ignoring me.

Ignoring? Me?

Did I not mention that my story was riveting? About a spontaneous McDonald's run and display of my most awesome parenting? Did he not get that part?

Pssshh.

His eyes were darting feverishly throughout our kitchen as he was muttering in my general direction, "Uh-hmm. Yeah. Sure, Clare..."

"Hello?!?"

"Yeah, Clare, I heard you. Mmm-hmmm..."

A tiny buzzing sound had overpowered the sound of my voice.

Newspaper, meet Bill's hand.

He was a goner, muttering to himself something about maggots as he swatted his newspaper throughout our home.

But this fly was particularly elusive and foolishly intent on taking up permanent residence at Casa-de-We-Already-Have-Four-Kids-And-We-Don't-Need-Disgusting-Maggot-Fly-Babies-In-Our-Garbage-Cans-Thankyouverymuch.

Hours later, darkness fell upon the land, and the fly remained at large.

Darkness. The Hunting Hour.

I looked over at my calm husband, with a newspaper firmly in his hand as he turned out every light in our home except for one. He smiled as the buzzing headed toward the light of the open door to our powder room. With as much dramatic pause as he could muster, he said to me before he closed the door, locking him and the poor, unsuspecting fly in the bathroom, "Clare? Only one of us is coming out alive."

Sigh. My guy. He's so fly. 

5 comments:

  1. Who knew you were married to such a bad ass? It's funny bc my hubs is SOOO anti-bug I almost feel sorry for them. I think they're just ascared of bugs!

    Yay on the Mickey D's run. I endorse that!

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  2. Great blog post. Loved the story and all the imagery. Great writing!

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  3. Wait! I'm on the edge of my seat here, Clare! What happened next? Did your hubs emerge victorious? Did the fly exit the powder room all gloating and stuff? I'm dyyyyyying over here...

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  4. Clare...I love to read your writing. What a gift you have for telling a story!

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  5. NICE! I think our husbands could join forces. They don't call him Mr. Miyagi for nothin'...!

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