I love flies.
Swans of the fecal world.
Thousands of flies have established residency on the sticky walls of my garbage cans. Hello and welcome.
I cherish every buzz and erratic zip-zag of flight. Week after week, the miracle of complete metamorphosis occurs in my cans. My husband and I pinch ourselves-– how can we be so lucky?
We are forced to rinse and clean our cans. But those industrious buggers always return. Thank you.
Every day, flies swarm our kitchen. We love how hungry and assertive they are. How patiently they stare at us on our counter’s edge and atop our wooden cutting boards.
I say: “After you, of course,” when they land and soften my buttered, organic oat bread with their saliva and vomit. Mi casa es su casa, after all.
It’s gay fun to chase flies around our kitchen island with dampened dishtowels. I also don’t enjoy killing the flies. I never high-five my kids when I send their tiny squashed bodies across the floor. Or scream: “Die, mother f-ers, die!”
Houseflies are beautiful. Dead houseflies are less so.
The elegant combination of red eyes and black striped bodies is stunning. Odd, since Mother Nature uses glorious colors on all other insects, to think she only used gray, black and red on a housefly.
Flies look like dapper, crime bosses from the 1920’s — so well dressed in their pinstriped spats, to hand deliver tiny pieces of fecal matter and bacteria to my bowl’s edge.
We foolishly rush to close our kitchen doors or turn our power washer to high to blast the f-ers out of the air. How shortsighted of us.
Living with flies has changed me. Now, I say to the meat monger, a.k.a. the butcher at Whole Foods: “Your finest pound of grass-fed beef! No. Make that a pound and a quarter!” The extra is for my flies.
Why doesn’t anyone on Etsy make welcome mat that reads: “House guests with pathogens that cause typhoid, cholera, salmonellosis, bacillary dysentery, tuberculosis, anthrax, ophthalmia, or parasitic worms are welcome!”?
Flies are part of a larger grand plan that no one has bothered to explain to me.
Would I punch a baby panda in the face if he pooped eggs on my counter top, barfed on my food and lived in my garbage? Only on opposite day do I punch baby pandas.