I saw my first fruit fly today. Every summer they invade my shoebox apartment, taking the kitchen by storm no matter how many dishes I do and how inaccessible my fruit is. June and July see my friends coming over for dinner and swatting them away from their faces as they sit at my table. I hate fruit flies with every fiber of my being. I'm thinking about getting a pet bat to keep them in check. Or do bats only eat mosquitoes? I'm not sure. Either way, this year I'm determined to keep them out. I'm not quite sure how yet, but I'm working on it. At least there was only one today, so I have a head start on the little monsters. I'll be damned if I can't have flowers in my apartment for fear of providing fodder. This summer, my apartment will be immaculate and will be declared a no-fly zone (get it? No fly? Like no fruit flies and no flying?).
This morning I finally paid a properly-calculated check to Mayo Clinic. Sadly, it was almost $2,000. I kept looking at the Amount Due box on the bill, checking to make sure I'd read it right, checking that the decimal point was really where I thought it was. It was. I lifted my pen to my checkbook, filling out every non-monetary or signatory line I could before slowly writing out the total amount, letter by painful letter. I hovered over the signature line, took a deep breath and looked away as I scrawled my illegible signature. I sealed and stamped the enclosed envelope and wrote the return address in the corner, adjusting my four-line address for the three lines given.
Like the fly: one down, many more to go.
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