Lord of the Flies

A cookout we hosted last Friday apparently coincided with "National Fly Hatching Day" and by the time everyone arrived, at least 4,000 flies had taken camp on our deck.

By the time everyone left, at least 400 had made their way into our house.

A majority of my week has been spent trying to get rid of these pests.  Through the help of Google and Pinterest, I've tried nearly everything ranging from bowls of water to Tupperware lids coated in honey and brown sugar strategically placed around the house.  The dogs drank the water and the flies enjoyed their sweet treat before flying off to another room.

The most effective method so far has been slowly and quietly lurking through the house, armed with a rolled up coloring book, until I spot one.  Then I hover silently, with bated breath, while I wait for the magic moment....the moment when the fly lets down his guard and begins rubbing his front feet together and BAM!!!  followed by a "GOT HIM!!" and then continue on my hunt.

This goes on periodically throughout the day and I go to bed feeling like I've made a significant dent in our fly population, only to wake up the next morning to discover that they either came back from the dead, called in out of town relatives or hatched a whole new set of offspring overnight. 

Last night I finally broke down and bought a box of classy fly paper.  The kind that look like old rolls of film dangling from the ceiling.  The check out lady said, "Careful not to catch your hair in one of those" and I thought to myself, Do I look like an idiot? 

First thing this morning, I caught my hair in one of those.  And so far, that, along with carpet fuzz and dog fur (don't ask) are the only things those blasted traps have caught while the flies continue to mock me.

The phrase Dropping Like Flies keeps going through my head and taunting me.  What is causing those flies to drop and how do I get my hands on it!?!? 

I need your help!  The person who gives me the secret to dropping these flies will win a shout out on my blog.

Oh come on, you know that's tempting.

Nice Ace

When my 20-something year old friend asked us to play on their sand volleyball team, my 40 year old flattered ego answered yes before my body had a chance to speak up.

All doubt was removed when she told me their team name, and a false sense of confidence convinced me that she wouldn't ask me to wear a shirt that said "Nice Aces" if it didn't apply.

In a hard-core-athlete sad mid-life-crisis kinda way, I started preparing.  Every run on the treadmill, every weight lifted and every stomach crunch was with sand volleyball in mind.  I starved myself of carbs for a week and I traveled to Kohls stores both near and far to find the perfect pair of shorts to flatter my boldly advertised "nice ace" scripted across my chest.

Most importantly, I refreshed my memory with a little research by watching the beach volleyball scene from the movie Top Gun.  Because let's be clear.  It's all about the background music, choreographed flex of the muscles, slow motion high fives and just the right amount of sweat.  This isn't sand volleyball, people.  This is art.  And I was ready.

Saturday was the day.  With the help of Map Quest, we arrived at the destination....an Ostrich Farm.  WTH?  What I found even more baffling was the lack of ostrich on their self-proclaimed farm.  None.  Just what appeared to be a large carport, 2 port-a-potties, 4 sand volleyball courts and approximately 100 pick-up trucks full of beer coolers, surrounded by tents and lawn chairs with people passing around a jug of liquid "apple pie" that my husband warned me wasn't really apple pie.  A lesson he learned after I inadvertently ate a plate of jello shots and showed up drunk to a church picnic. 

But they had the background music.  It wasn't Kenny Loggins.  It was better.  It's like they took a copy of my iPod playlist.  Songs by Justin Timberlake, Ludacris and Florida to name a few.  Songs that convince you that you not only run fast, but that you look super cool while you're running fast.  And they were blasting from the speakers all day long.

Nine hours later, we walked away with 3rd place, which I consider a victory.  I think the sexy music helped.  Our opponents might have been distracted by the stunt plane that was practicing aerial maneuvers above our heads and/or the longer we played, the more drunk they got.  Or maybe, just maybe, they underestimated the skill of a team that included not only 40 year old Top Gun wannabes, but a couple of fierce pregnant women, too.

But watch out.  Because next year, some of us will have given birth and the rest of us will have mastered the all important volleyball-on-the-fingertip-spin...and then you're going down.

Consider me shocked

Fact #1:  Electrocution is my second biggest fear next to Rabies.
Fact #2:  If something hurts bad enough and long enough, I'm willing to try anything to make it go away.

The pain in my left hip is the by-product of a woman who takes up running at the age of 39.  It now serves as a daily reminder that I'm on the downhill slope to 41. 

Will the pain go away if I stop running?  Yes.
Will I stop running?  No.

That leaves me few options.  I've seen a Chiropractor, but that was a temporary fix and the pain returned.  If I could get a massage every day, it would eventually go away, but who can afford that?  Although I am a Massage Therapist, unfortunately I'm unable to contort myself to properly reach the problem.  So I've been living on muscle relaxers, ice, heat and stretching treatments.  Those bring relief, but it doesn't make it GO AWAY.

Desperation sent me to our neighbor's house this week to borrow her TENS machine.  Short for, Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator.  Code for, Electrotherapy.  Or in other words....electrocute my own ass.  Sign me up.

I knew one of two things.  My husband would either want nothing to do with this process or worse, he'd want too much to do with this process.  So I waited until he left the house to hook myself up.  I lay on our bed and stuck the 4 large round electrodes to the top of my left butt cheek where the pain originates.  Then I lay holding the control box and praying what I was sure would be my final prayer before electrifying myself straight to meet my maker face to face.

I might know what it feels like to be on death row now.

With the turn of the knobs, and a panicked scream, electrical currents started pulsing into my butt.  Not entirely unpleasant.  So I cranked it up, yelled "Son of a ____" and cranked it back down.  Turns out, it can be unpleasant.

I left it on for about an hour and took it off when paranoia of long term twitching, drooling and/or lack of bladder control entered my mind.

There was only one noticeable side-effect that was discovered shortly after crawling into bed with my husband when he said, "Crap!  Your butt just burned my fingers!"

Cool.  I've always wanted a hot butt....

*This just in:  Do NOT pee with electrodes attached to your ass.  One stray splash and your teeth will chatter for 8 whole seconds.
Knowledge is power, people.