Leaving Los Larvae

I kept chanting it in my head. "They're just cute little baby flies. That's all. All babies are cute. Cute little baby flies."
This is what one does on Day Three of Planet Unemployment. They become responsible homeowners and realize, to their abhorrence and dismay, there are MAGGOTS in their outdoor garbage can.
Oh help me Jesus. They were there.
What does one do? One buys gallons of bleach and eradicates said baby flies.
I drive little these days. Gasoline is too expensive. And my bike is broken. Instead, I walk. Or go nowhere. For a person use to living in their vehicle, I've suddenly, and quite surprisingly, discovered I own a home. At least for now.
Being an adult, yet being single, is a nifty little demographic status that keeps us quite comfortably in the adolescent stages of life. We work. We pay our bills. But dang it, we aren't home enough to spend that much time wondering if we should repaper the front closet.
Buying a home does not mean I've suddenly become a full-fledged adult. No sir. I bought it because it was pretty.
Anyway, I'm learning that upkeep is just one of those things, like repainting your toenails. Just hunker down and do it. Too much spare time and I'm beginning to see this place through all new eyes. I mean, dang it. I actually thought about repapering the front closet.
So here I am with a problem. Lots of little bitty problems actually. And let's just preface this by saying, Tara has a weak stomach. I know. I'm a bloody reporter. I know this. I've seen a lot of nastiness in my day. I know this too. I've been in meth houses where the oxygen was no longer human friendly, homicide scenes you can't quite scrub from your memory, and accidents that ended your innocence. But you tell my stomach not to get queasy. Maybe it will listen to you.
I breathed in and out a few times, kept chanting my mantra "they're just baby flies," grabbed my gumption, and went outside. Armed with my funky green and hot pink garden gloves, garden hose, and the ability to hold my breath for three to seven minutes, I attacked this monster. And once the kill was complete, once I had ended this tribe of larvae, I removed all evidence of a crime and vacated the scene.
You could say this is just unemployment. But let me tell you, this is no minor leaguer time wasting. This kind of uselessness is only for the brave hearted, low pain tolerant, and minds of solid steel. This is kill or be killed nothingness. This, my friends, is life in the no lane.
Tomorrow? I'm pulling weeds. Watch out world!
Tara Lynn Thompson