Unstructured time and I are not on good terms. I rattle around like a firefly in a jar for a bit, brain synapses firing randomly until I just fall over.
Although now that I think about it, maybe I’m just not getting enough oxygen…
I start out with the best of intentions, of course; but like many busy people, the moment I don’t have a deadline, my rear end goes in search of a couch.
Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mary says. You do plenty. Go ahead and watch TV.
Oh, Mary, Mary, Mary. You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed.
So I was laying on the couch yesterday, four hours into a What Not To Wear marathon, breathing deeply, blinking slowly, a pillow-seam slowly imprinting itself on my cheek, when a tiny bug flitted into view.
Fruit fly? The porch now doubles as a freezer, the number of clothing items I am now required to wear at any given time almost guarantees that I will never lose at Strip Poker in the winter and I find a fruit fly in the living room?
I set off to investigate.
A review of the kitchen revealed nothing out of line, nor did the bathroom or the bedroom.
I was stumped. What’s going on here? Did I fall asleep in the winter and awake in the spring? Is there a banana stuffed between the couch cushions?
Am I on a new “reality” show?
And then I looked up to the heating vents.
They’re coming through the vents from the upstairs tenants.
Don’t get me wrong. I got mad respect for the fruit fly. Small and relatively harmless, entirely splatter-free when I kill it for invading my space, the fruit fly comes from out of nowhere.
You gotta respect that.
But respecting the mighty fruit fly is a far cry from providing it housing.
And talking to a tenant about housekeeping ranks right up there with expressing concern over a friend’s weight gain or choice in men.
Shoot. Here I thought I had free time.
One Last Note
11 hours ago