It was somewhere between my boob sweat, the beetles on my kitchen floor and the maggots camping in my compost bin that I realized, I hate July.
I loathe July like I loathe winter, but July has at least one decent perk; sending my kids outside without 3 pairs of pants.
Monday night, the trash goes to the curb. It’s always the same, tedious, icky and it’s boring.
We take turns dragging out our weekly refuse and then we hose the bin, let it dry and bring it back. We even line our compost bin with a bio bag. (Biodegradable)
This week in July has been particularly gross and excessively muggy. I try to take walks to stretch my legs and live longer. I push a double stroller usually full of free loading babies, and I just end up sweating from my bra clasp down to my stretchy lycra waist band.
I guess it’s also primetime fly hatching weather. And nature provides bountifully.
When I removed the compost bag from the bin, a swarm of flies came darting out as if I’d summoned the Candy Man. The smell was not of this earth. It was a stench too putrid to have been born on God Fearing Land. Surely, this was the work of a devil.
I ran for soap or matches or a flame thrower.
My husband was inside, coughing from pneumonia. The fever could take him any moment, he was house bound and trapped by weak lungs. It was like a novel out of Colonial New England. He was of no help! I had to hurry and clean up, the children would be looking for me and I damned sure did not want them touching maggots. Or asking questions.
The first bottle of solution I happened on in the shed was organic Castile soap. This would lightly scent the maggots with almond oil but I was desperate. My toddler was already at my heels in nothing but a diaper. Not even shoes. (Cmon now, there’s maggots in a bucket and he’s not wearing shoes? Someone is going to call DCF. PS DON’T do that! He’s tended to!)
“Mama! What you do? Mama doing? Mama clean?!”
“There’s no time to talk! Be brave, run, save yourself!”
But he follows me instead, peppering me with the same question. “Mama doing? Mama doing?”
“Mommy’s drowning maggots.”
I inhumanely euthanized those three repulsive larvae with a fifteen dollar bottle of biodegradable-earth-friendly-pocket-book murdering soap.
I Tekken-style finished them with the garden hose and dumped the whole sloppy mess over my neighbors fence.
And that’ll teach them to never trim their bushes and run motorcycles at midnight, and fireworks; don’t even get me started.
I was relieved to have it done with. Maggot free is the way to be.
What’s more than awful is that I can’t scrap the compost idea altogether. You see, my town implemented an Earth Saving (cheap, money grubbing scheme) to charge two dollars per trash bag that you toss. Accountability, guilt, greed, I dunno, same umbrella.
I buy a roll of five special, gilded, bourgeois garbage bags for ten bucks.
With two diapered babies and a preschooler who trows out food like we’re Vanderbilt’s.
But compost is free removal! All you have to do is put paper and food waste in a separate bucket and ditch your nose and bleach your memory.
Go to hell compost. I don’t care how free you are.
But I’ll still see you in my office on Monday.
You’re on notice July.
I can’t wait until October.