Friday, September 9, 2011

Doctor Jones and the Flying Pest

    Two flies swirled around the house. I could tell they were in love by the stupid way they acted.  
    Didn't they understand how ridiculous they looked?
    The bugs wanted to have whoopie--in my kitchen.  They wanted to start A FAMILY--in my bathroom!  Talk about crossing the line.  That's when I knew I had to kill them.


    I pulled out my fly swatter, and felt cooler than Gary Cooper at High Noon.  Those flies were about to meet Jesus, cowboy-style.
    Doctor Jones (my one-year-old) giggled and laughed.  "Mama," she said as I ran around swatting everything.  "Mama, vvrooom!"
    "Yes, Mama vroom."  I felt like an idiot though. My right arm was about to fall off after several minutes and I hadn't killed anything.  It reminded me of hunting season--I'm never the one to get a deer.  I killed a bunny once, but then I cried.
    So, I became a "depressed swatter" in that moment because I'm a professional seamstress.  If I'm expected to do anything--capable of anything--it's killing flies.  Haven't you heard the story of "The Brave Little Tailor?"

    This MOUSE got seven flies in one blow; I can't even get one.

    I kept swatting for awhile longer, until I slumped onto the floor and nearly cried.  Do you ever get the feeling that you aren't good at anything?  Well that's how I felt.  
    Then, to make things worse, the flies did a sex dance in front of my face.  I sat even more dejectedly.  I knew they'd never die.  They'd mate forever, bring an army of users into my home and live happily ever after.  
    I seriously thought all of that until Doctor Jones saved the day.
    She walked by me and patted my head.  "Mama, k?" she asked.
    "I'm all right.  I'm just supposed to be a seamstress and I can't even kill a fly!  If I could just be better . . . be more."
    The two pests landed on top of each other on the wall.  I turned away since their actions made me sick.  (Some couples just shouldn't reproduce.)  
    Doctor Jones stared though.  Her poofy dress swayed as she stopped.  Her brown curls encircled her chubby face and blue eyes.  She walked up to the flies and took an even closer look.
    "Uck."  Her nose wrinkled.  "Ew."
    "Don't watch them," I said, turning.  "It's too terrible, too yucky and to think . . . they want to live forever."  I sighed.  "I hate those flies.  Some things are just worse than death."
    Doctor Jones nodded.  Her face hardened with resolve.  She smirked slightly though as a thought crossed her face.  That's when the strangest thing EVER happened--she practically flew to the rescue. 
    Her hand wrenched out faster than the tongue of a frog.  She pinched both flies to death with her chubby hand and then threw them into her . . . (can I even type this) m-o-u-t-h.
    "Nooooooo!" I screamed like Vader had cut off my hand.
    She paled committing the 8th cardinal sin (eating bug salad), spit the flies on the floor and pointed.  "No!  No!"
    I whimpered, "That's right.  No . . . no."  Death had never looked so gruesome.  I wanted to cry thinking of love's deadly embrace!
    I hope she won't eat bugs again, ever.  But on the bright side, someone asked me today what Doctor Jones will be when she grows up. 
    I grinned confidently and said, "A seamstress--of course.  My girl killed two flies in one blow!"
    What can I say; some babies are just born to be super.