In which I pack my bags for Australia

I pride myself on strange things.  Like my childrens’ musical repertoire.  Or my ability to spell repertoire.

My girls can and will happily sing on command such varied music as Springtime for Hitler (Broadway-The Producers), Ring of Fire (Johnny Cash), To Make You Feel My Love (Bob Dylan), R-E-S-P-E-C-T (Aretha Franklin), Leaving on a Jet Plane (Peter, Paul and Mary),  Country Road (John Denver), Single Ladies (Beyonce – and this one they did not learn from me…), and Big House (Audio Adrenaline).

This pleases me. No Kidz Bop in my house, thankyouverymuch.

I also draw great satisfaction from my ability to swat flies.

For real.

We live in farm country, and while the horses and cows and chickens on the farm behind us are lovely to look at, they do attract unwanted pests to the area.  In the summer time they are so thick sometimes you can barely stand to sit outside.  Of course that could also be because of the oppressive humidity (Hello, yesterday’s heat index of 113 degrees!)

They fail to mention these things in the Kentucky travel brochures.  Little publicized fact – bluegrass, bourbon, and race horses bring with them heat, humidity, and flies, my friends.  Enter at your own risk.

So I’ve honed my flay-swatting skills.  I’m not exactly grabbing chopsticks yet, but I dare say Mr. Miyagi wouldn’t be too disappointed in me.

Yesterday I killed 37.  Inside our house.  How gross is that?

[Not as gross as not killing them, I assure you]

But at least we could sleep in relative peace.

In mentioning this to a friend from Down Under, I learned that I am living in entirely the wrong place.  Not because of the flies, either, but because there is nothing I can really do with my talent here.  Sure, we can eat dinner fly-free, but that’s a fleeting satisfaction.

Apparently if I relocate, I can turn my skills into a real, productive force.  Introducing the Aussie Competitive Fly Swatting experience.

I knew I was in the wrong place.

Actual photo of me swatting fly. Seriously.