The violent annihilation of thousands of innocents was not especially difficult, even for a enlightened, centered, peaceful being such as myself. Hearing about the slaughter will likely be more difficult for you than the actual killing was for me. (I was singing a Sinead O'Connor song at the time).
Let me explain.
I had been having a lovely weekend. Friday night, I saw the precious Sri and the dearest Bibi. We talked about our trip to Africa and chattered about our El Capitan fantasies. Today, I have been reading blogs, listening to Tibetan prayer chants and scrubbing things. I have been feeling - all weekend long - pretty goddammed harmonized with the universe. I even got an email from Merry, who is now home from Australia, which means brunch after church. That event alone gets me all the way to eleven.* OM.
But let me get to the murders.
I have the great good fortune to be friends with more than woman from India. One of these lovelies, my darling Lola, taught me a whole about Indian cooking, and as a result, I have a formidable spice rack. It includes everything a proper South Indian girl might need to cook for her household. Bag of basmati, too. I can even make the naan.
Now, I have only been back from South Carolina for a short time, and since I got back, I have not cooked a thing. I have been living on vitamins, water, salad and a piece of fish here or there. It happens sometimes. (It should happen more often. I'd be a lot thinner if it did).
I am on my way to the murders. Please be patient.
So last night it seemed a good New Years, 2008 idea to clean out my refrigerator and my cabinets and give everything a good scrub. I decided I would start with the microwave. I reached for the door of the microwave and I had the oddest sensation, unlike I have ever had in my life.
The feeling was, well, one of suffocation, one of horror, astonishment, nausea and outrage. Because do you know what happened when I opened the door to the microwave?
Times like this, I wish I were handier with a thesaurus. What happened is that the area between the sink and the cabinet tops, commonly refered to as my kitchen counter, was obscured from view by the most vicious, wiggling, (seven-legged giraffe of a) cyclone of fruit flies ever recorded in human history. (Tights optional).** I shrieked. I went weak in the knees. I think I cried a little bit. So that you understand, I made a picture for you.
Picture thousands of him flying in lazy formation over you kitchen counter. Adjacent to your spice rack. You'd cry, too.
So I crawled over to the computer and IMed Supajewie.*** Having deliberately infested her own house with dogs, cats, and a baby, Supa understood instantly my feelings of rage, heartbreak and scorn. She recommended bleach and boiling water.
I considered. Yes, I could boil water - that is I could if I could nudge enough of these creatures out of my way and grasp the a sauce pan handle without injuring any of them. I did not understand the bleach idea at all. What would turning them snowy white accomplish, other than making them harder to see? Then I realized: if I did pour water down the drain and the water was boiling, serious injury would be done to the swarm. And bleach, while excellent for washing sheets and towels, is harmful to living things.
I did not understand how I was going to take back my apartment by non-violent means.
Was there a way, I asked Supa, for me to pack them all a lunch and light their way to a nice sewage drain somewhere? Was it possible, in all humility, to usher them all into my backpack and set them free in Washington Square Park, so scavenge among the dope dealers and seagulls? Might I toss name tags around their necks, get to know them, and make peace?
Supa told me to get over myself. I didn't need to hear that. I was already beside myself.
Then the oddest, most unexpected thing happened. (Well, odd after the tornado of wiggling grape fuckers). I armed my cat with a paring knife, put on my coat, and left the building. I directed my steps down 2nd Ave and let the drizzle have its way with my hair. I let my socks get soggy. I walked down to the river, which, if you know anything about Dickens, is where desperate people always go when they are not sure whether to live or die. I looked into the rising and falling waves of the brackish East River and considered the great rhythm of the cosmos, the circle of life, the miracle of sentience. Then I considered - and resigned myself to kill.
I returned to apartment and reported to Supa that the time had come for me to go crazystyles on my flying friends. She approved, and I went to work. Before I opened the first can of whoop ass on my kitchen dwellers, I selected Mantra Mix Disc 1, you know, to take the sting out of it. (As if that were even possible).
A few puffs from the Raid dispenser, and the bodies began to rain down upon me like hail. It was absolutely disgusting. (A few of them simply melted into thin air. I saw this happen. I am not kidding).
After the last of them - or at any rate the last I can locate - died, I swabbed them up and took them trash out. I then set about bleaching the entire kitchen. Then I re-washed it all over again with hot water and a magic eraser, boiled a gallon of water an poured it down my sink drain.
Is it safe now? I don't know.
If I stop posting and a six winged fruit fly with a giraffe's head appears on my blog and starts talking about its feelings, I think you will all know what went down here.
Now I am off to church and brunch with Merry. When I return, I will commence freaking out over all the work I have to do to get ready for tomorrow (first day of classes at Sweet Little College).
* I love you if you know what it means to "go to eleven."
** If you are confused, you just scroll down and admire the giraffe. Everyone else had to do it.
*** For more information regarding this moniker click here.