Twenty-four hours.
Forty-eight hours.
Two weeks.
Fifteen to twenty-five days.
Eight days to two weeks.
The above time frames are answers I found on pages in the Google search query "life expectancy of a housefly."
Really.
Well, that explains it. I had always heard that houseflies live no longer than 24 hours, but that had never been the case for the ones who managed to wrangle their way into my house. This week has been no exception. One of those creepy, ginormous black flies zinged past me Monday morning as I headed out for a day of (ugh!) clothes shopping with the kiddos. (Which, incidentally, turned out far better than expected...)
Anyhoo, I barreled back into the house and...well, maybe it will be more interesting if I give you a little run-down:
Monday
Day One. Big Fat Hairy Fly zings past me into the kitchen as the kiddos and I step out. Attempts to shoo it out are unsuccessful. It has free reign in my house aaaaaaall day. (Yes, the shopping trip took that long...)
Tuesday
Day 2. Big Fat Hairy Fly buzzes around my living room, taunting me as it lands on top of the ceiling fan. Unwilling to unleash the significant dust bunnies from the fan blades - can dust bunnies be buff? - I concede defeat again. Knowing we have to go back out for more clothes shopping since Monday didn't yield all we needed, I turn my back on the living room and usher the kiddos out the door. All during the drive to the stores, I try not to think about the germ-filled interloper hanging out in my house. Or the fact that in fifteen minutes I will be shopping. Again. Yeah. Did I ever mention I hate shopping?
Wednesday
Day 3. Big Fat Hairy Fly buzzes irritatingly behind the office blinds long into the night as I tap out my Teddy Bear Picnic post. Every few sentences I whack at the blinds, to no avail. I shut down the computer, grit my teeth against the maddening buzz, and retire for the evening. Mercifully, it does not follow me.
Thursday
Day 4. Big Fat Hairy Fly doesn't appear. The kiddos and I have a leisurely morning, reading, eating breakfast, playing. No fly. Lunchtime comes, and we stage our own Teddy Bear Picnic in the living room, complete with scads of teddy bears, one Turtwig (don't ask), crackers, green tea, milk, apples and brownies. Still no fly. By late afternoon, it cools off, so we play outside. Late afternoon turns into evening, and we make a reluctant return indoors. Still no fly. Dinner. Chowder and Flapjack. Still no fly. Bedtime, stories, smooches goodnight. Again, no fly.
Assuming the Big Fat Hairy Fly was finally in that Big Garbage Can in the Sky, I plop down in front of the computer and get to work.
Well. You know what happens when you assume...
10:41 PM - BFHF slowly buzzes around my desk, then wobbles through the air to the teeny space between wall and bookcase. (Natch.) Buzzing stops. Whew!
10:45 PM - BFHF emerges from behind the bookcase, crawls across my inkjet paper, then does a buzz-by past my head. Where is that little...
10:49 PM - Bzzt! Bzzzzzzt! Dang! Where did it go?
10:53 PM - No buzz. Dare I think?
10:56 PM - Still no buzz. Alrighty then, this has to be it.
11:05 PM - Type. Type. Type. Munch on licorice. Type. BZZZT! BZZZZZZZT! You have GOT to be kidding me! What is this? Invinci-Fly? We're goin' on 96 hours, for cryin' out loud..
11:19 PM - Still buzzing... Errrrgghh! Enough! I'm going to bed. Big Fat Hairy Fly apparently lives to annoy another day.
Twenty-four hours, my eye!
To celebrate the holidays we asked some of our favorite people in publishing what their favorite book was. Let us know in the comments what your favorite book is and be sure to check back throughout the week for more “favorites”.
Andrew DeSio is the Director of Publicity at Princeton University Press.
If I had to pick a favorite book I’d go with Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Raoul Duke’s romp, along with his trusty attorney Dr. Gonzo, through the desert in search of that unattainable state of euphoria, all the while experiencing American culture at its best and worst, is as pertinent now as it was in 1972.
Thompson is known for his heroic drug binges but his choppy yet flowing prose is often overlooked by his dirty deeds. The fact that he can remember so vividly his exploits in the book while being under the influence is testament to his great mind. He’s one of America’s eminent satirists and humorists, and will be sorely missed.
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good story and a pretty fly sketch too :P
OMG!
I keep a can of hair spray handy. If you spray them they can’t fly and are easy to swat! To justify this unfair carnage I remember the diseases flies carry!
Don’t put out any fly traps or we won’t get to read these great posts!
I know! Sheesh! (0:
Thanks, Kev!
Hmmm, good idea. Thanks!
Hee hee, thanks, Julie!