Teeny tiny dream

The week promises to be busy, as usual.  My older sons have an appointment in the morning at the DMV to get driving permits.  The other kids have school, of course.  My husband will drive one to school and I have carpool duty picking up our daughter and four other kids. One of the older kids has a college class in the afternoon, then works later in the afternoon.

And I suppose everyone will want to eat dinner.  Again.  Every night it’s the same thing:  “Mom, what’s for dinner?”  SO MONOTONOUS.

Listen, I’d like to know, too.  But I’ve been preoccupied by fruit flies.  Obsessed, even.

For about a week, I’ve been killing hundreds and hundreds of fruit flies in my effective concoction of red wine vinegar mixed with a drop of dishwashing liquid.  I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from.  We had no more fruit sitting on the counters.  I’d taken out the trash, washed out the bottom of the compactor.

Yet after all that, one morning, a cloud of tiny flies greeted me in the kitchen.

I went a little berserk that day, slamming my palms onto the cabinets, smashing unsuspecting flies.  I actually got a bruise.  I scared my dog by suddenly clapping my hands for no apparent reason.

At last, I realized that something ugly lingered inside the trash compactor, so my son helped me figure out how to get the crusher-thing to come down.  Sure enough, there was . . . well, ick.  I cleaned it out and the fruit flies have lessened, though they haven’t quite disappeared completely.

Some people are out changing their worlds.  I’m merely trying to keep fruit flies from copulating in my kitchen.