Sending them to meet their maker

Biffle and I have had a wonderful, lazy weekend together--we spent last night in Bethera, SC, at Guy and Tina's Pickin' Parlor, a twenty-year-old bluegrass tradition that I'm sure Biffle will blog about in detail later. We've taken several naps, watched DVDs, and tonight we're going for sushi. After we woke up from our nap this afternoon, I said, "Wouldn't this be ideal if this were our real life?"

The only fly in the ointment is a literal fly--or, more accurately, thirty or forty of them. Apparently they are an inescapable part of summer in Charleston--they find their way into the house and buzz at the windows, sending Biffle into a kind of weird warrior mode, stalking fiercely around the house with the flyswatter. "I am sending them to meet their maker!" he announced this afternoon.

Baxter, who takes after me in terms of being a bit high strung, has developed a flyswatter phobia. I can tell when Biffle has started going after the flies because Baxter's eyes get big, her ears go back, and she comes and presses her body against me or under me. Well, what the hell. It's just another charming development in her personality.

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