That was easy.

There was a fly stumbling around in the kitchen this morning.  It was moving awfully slow.  It even landed on the floor a few times.  I figured it was not meant for this world much longer, but I didn't have the heart to kill it.  There's a door leading outside to the backyard on the other side of the room.  That was when I started trying to herd the fly toward the door.  Have you ever tried herding a fly?  Well, try herding cats and then multiply the difficulty by 10.

Dish towel in hand, I waved it around yelling, "I'm trying to save you, fly!  Can't you feel the cold air blowing in?  Go, go!"  Well, a few minutes later he finally went.  I watched him zip out and then I shut the door on Old Man Winter and went about my business.

Cut to lunch time.  I'm in the kitchen again and what do I hear?  That old familiar buzzing.  What the heck?  Now, I know for a fact the first one went out, and the door was locked up tight after it.  This had to be . . . the first fly's sister/cousin/stepmother?  For a minute I entertained the idea that I was at the beginning of a horror movie where flies start to show up one by one until there's a big reveal of a scary guy opening his mouth and thousands of flies swarming out.  Still, I was trying to avoid killing it.  I figured since I got the first one outside, I could do the same for its relative (or minion of Satan).  Well, this one had a little more pep in his step (zing in his wing?), and he just would not go.

By the time my family arrived home later in the evening he was still buzzing around.  I ventured out the back door to cut some rosemary for dinner, and when I came back my dad was folding up a dish towel, looking pretty pleased with himself.  I looked at him, questioningly.  He assured me the fly was taken care of.  He had "whacked" him.  Oh. 

The Fly

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

-William Blake

Harpy! Harpy! burning bright

For some people, the world exists only to complain about it.  The woman downstairs is one of those people.  In Greek mythological circles she might be termed a harpy. She is constantly trying to snatch everything good and reasonable out of the air.

First she complained she could hear us talking too loudly with the windows open.  Valid.  We shut the windows. Then we were stomping around too hard on the floor when we walked.  She called my roommate Lady Minotaur, spitting the words at us as if they were some great insult.  Can you imagine what it would be like if we actually wore our shoes indoors?  Then her issue was with the fan my roommate had set up in her bedroom during one hot week of summer.  Apparently it was shaking her walls.  Our apartment is on the top floor and has so many windows it's like a greenhouse up in here.  My roommate tried all sorts of ways to rig the fan so that it was cushioned from the floor.  That wasn't enough.  The harpy demanded that the landlord install a ceiling fan.  He did but also suggested that maybe apartment living isn't for her. 

Now it's effing cold and I have a space heater turned on during the hour or so before I go to bed.  I close the door and my room becomes a hotbox and then I turn it off until the morning (fear of electrical fire).  This teeny tiny heater sits on a portable table on top of a rug.  Guess what.  It's causing a "humming sound" that's disturbing her highness.  The landlord sent me an email today with the subject line "Help."  He asked if I would mind putting a pillow underneath the heater or something.  Because I like him and don't want to cause him trouble, I said sure.  But what I really wanted to say was to tell the wicked witch that I'm only living here for 8 more days, so suck it up.  Better yet, tell her to come up and ask me herself.

There is a happy ending to this story.  I call it divine justice.  The landlord informed me that our apartment has been rented by some very nice people.  A family.  With two kids.  God, I hope those kids wrestle and scream and jump up and down on the floor.  What can you say?  They're just kids.

A Poison Tree

by William Blake

I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe.
I told it not, my wrath did grow;

And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles;

And it grew both day and night
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.