I woke up early this morning to break a vow — never to do work-work at home. I break that vow routinely, because it is just necessary sometimes.
I set up shop in the living room (as to not disturb the sleeping), made coffee, plugged in the laptop and turned on the living room light (in that order, dictated by importance).
On general principle, the disovery of insect infestations are always scripted like horror movies. Two years ago, we returned from a week’s vacation to find a small bird dead in the basement. Sad, but easily cleanable.
I didn’t think anything of it until about a day later, when I went to the basement to do laundry. I’m used to walking around in the dark, so I didn’t reach up to turn on the bare bulb until I had already transferred the contents of the washer to the dryer. While looking for any stragglers in the washer’s basin, I thought I heard a faint buzzing noise. I swatted my ears absently, thinking some random critter had given my head the ol’ flyby. That’s when I noticed the light was swaying, that is, the shadow moved back in forth along the basement wall, which was odd considering that it was a fixed fixture.
OK, stop. The camera pans back, to see me looking up over my shoulder, expecting some H. R. Giger wetdream poised above my shoulder. I was not entirely relieved to find the entire light covered by flies. Dozens of them. Their collective mass blotting out the light bulb.
To my credit, I didn’t screech. I backed my way out the basement, half-expecting a giant Mutha Fly the size of a grizzly to step out from beneath the stairs. I made a quick excuse to the missus, and drove my ass to Home Depot for a selection of nasty, nasty chemicals. I didn’t care if my next child was born with a tail, these flies must dies.
The scene didn’t exactly repeat itself this morning, but as I sat down to start working, which I still haven’t really done yet, I felt tiny little feet crawling across the back of my neck. I reached back and grabbed an a winged ant and, as if waiting for their cue, about a dozen of its broodmates landed about me at the dining room table.
No time for me to run to Home Depot, I’m afraid. Somebody call James Whitmore! E. O. Wilson! Somebody!