It’s 0710 hours, barely an hour after I returned from slumberland (no connection to the mattress company, just so you know) that a disgusting myriad of tasks is out to get me. Namely, 3 species of infestation has decided to make my morning miserable.
Not including my father and my younger brother, mind you. They decided to be helpful by escaping to the mamak restaurant for breakfast, Horlicks-panas and male bonding. Which is good and all and so this way, I can do an impression of Desperate Housewife in private.
Well there’s no point for my inner brat to stomp. The Head Housewife, aka Mak, had already left yesterday morning for that Pontian trip with other non-household family members. She had already planned the impromptu Journey-to-Johor during the Aidil Adha gathering.
Forgiven, but the damned woman could have warned me. So what else is there to do? I tied my guts and started to work.
Let’s start with the easiest problem, the colony on the floor.
Oh gee, if only I had a broom...
Due to the sickly sinful stench from the kitchen rubbish bin (and we all know that kitchen rubbish holds the best stuff), a ... swarm? Group? Pack? Er, whatever. English grammar fixing later.
Anyway, a lot of ants had taken over a section of the kitchen, right under the kitchen rubbish bin. Apparently, the liquid fermentation of Chemistry 101 in the bin was irresistible to these tiny, black, itchy dots.
My plan of attack was a page right out of Ant Bully movie. I flooded their project with a bucket of water and mopped them all up with floor cleaner. Yucks, but it cleans the floor too.
The most pressing task is the kitchen rubbish bin itself. Now that stinks!
Maggot (mag’eot), noun. 1. a soft-bodied, legless larva of certain dipterous insects.
That’s what my Webster dictionary says. I can describe it better.
OH F**KING CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAP...!
You see, when you don’t take out the trash every other day of the week, regardless of trash volume, yuck-yuck-yucky maggots start to spawn in your rubbish. Apparently, the men in my family did not take into account that I was STUDYING for my exam at the same time that my mother bailed out of the house, thus leaving kitchen rubbish bin to turn into White-Worm Condominium.
I care not to photograph the actual state of my kitchen rubbish bin, one part is that I care not to remember how it looked like every time I return to this blog and another part is that, at the time, my hands are too dirty to contaminate my very clean Sony Ericsson.
But as God has given us maggots and imagination, use your noodles on what lies on and within this blue plastic wrap.
Itty, bitty white stuff are doing the belly-flop-walk on the surface of this bag.
And this brings us to my third morning friend...
In a page from Harry Potter’s Chamber of Secrets, the phrase ‘bee in your bonnet’ probably meant something that’s bothering a person. I suppose it’s a reminiscent of the days out of the classic Pride and Prejudice movie, when women wear these straw hats while taking garden walks.
I don’t have a bonnet, but I do have bees. About a colony the size of your fist and growing. And they had chosen an ingenious place to make their new home.
This. Is. My. Trash Box!
I was taking my Big Blue Bag of Smelly Stuff (bare-handed, by the way, I didn’t care to waste time looking for gloves) and opened the trash box when the trash box started to talk back at me. More of a groan-groan-hum, the kind of sound that 2 year old brats make when they don’t want to eat their veggies.
At first, either an invisible stray cat was dying in my trash box or the trash box itself had mutated to attempt to dirty-talk at me, did I notice a corner of the box and I had to shut it quickly. It’s not that I hate bees; it’s just that I didn’t expect to get up close, face-to-face, at 7 in the morning.
So I just left it like that, duct-taped my trash box against innocent curious bystanders. Really, I can handle ants and maggots but BEES are out of my level of experience. I’ve yet to inform the missing males of my family of our new guests.
All and all, I didn’t plan on starting my 3 weeks holiday with a starring role in an episode of Dirty Jobs (Discovery Channel, good show actually). But I should have expected it, really; I mean, who else but a housewife’s daughter get to lead such exciting life?
Aaah, screw it. When my little brother gets home, I’m going to shove the kitchen sink and the washing machine at him, then take a hot shower and go back to slumberland (no connection to the mattress company, just to remind you).
PS: Malay culture says that it’s good luck when a bee comes to your house but no really, does anybody know how to get rid of a small bee hive? I don’t plan on disturbing, say, the fire brigade, until somebody gets stung.