Sorry, Grandma, You Are Wrong

I cannot escape.  

The hostage situation began about a week ago.  I turned on the kitchen light and they jumped me—swarming from every direction at once.  Though small in stature, they use the force of their numbers to intimidate.  I lashed out, trying to mount an offense of my own.  My eyes are not sharp enough; my hands are not fast enough.  My superior intelligence and strength are as useless as a ham sandwich at a vegan convention.

How smug I was when we purchased our composting paraphernalia, setting up the large cranking bin outside under the deck while the smaller green bin perched beside the kitchen sink.  Unfortunately, the contents of the large bin froze during the winter, halting our year-round composting efforts.  Nonetheless, we have been religious in processing our veggie scraps for about eight months of the year.  Along with our other recycling efforts, we have successfully reduced our “real trash” to just one Glad Heavyweight per week.

Why, then, am I being punished?  What is the reason for this aggressive attack on my kitchen sanctuary, where my expressions of maternal love are manifested?  I have meals to prepare; my children are home from college and badly in need of some spoiling.  I am reminded again of my mantra:  no good deed goes unpunished.  Damn fruit flies!

Fortunately, I have a secret weapon:  Google.  With a few clicks of my most important kitchen gadget—a laptop—I was instantly the confidant of dozens of similarly afflicted housewives.  I may be no match for the insidious, multiplying little creatures, but they cannot escape the combined bench strength of “the scourge warriors of cyberspace.”  

Newly enlightened, I crafted a MacGyver-style fruit fly trap.  I squirted a small amount of dish soap in a shallow bowl and then filled it with water.  Next, I floated a couple of teaspoons of apple cider vinegar over the top of the sudsy solution.  I set the trap near the kitchen sink and went out for the day.  Hours later I returned victorious, doing a little happy dance over the spoils of war.

My grandmother was very fond of saying “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”  There was no scientific basis for her statement.  Rather, it was her way of teaching a young girl how to use feminine wiles to ensnare an unsuspecting male.   I am quite certain that my insistence on “being my true self” was always a source of anguish to my grandparents, who feared that my lack of a sugary disposition would cause me to die a lonely spinster.  Fortunately, however, vinegar makes a darn good fruit fly trap!