When I was 11 years old, my dad used to take me out on a fishing boat that left early in the morning and returned in the afternoon. The fishermen all put money into a pool, as a prize for catching the biggest fish of the day. The day I won the pool, the fishing must’ve been pretty crappy. I won with a 15 pound Bonita.
I was so proud! It was a real moment of glory in a childhood that I only remember in snapshots, most of them unpleasant. I loved the fish, so I put it in the garage on some newspaper. One day, my mom told me to go and throw the fish away. When I went to get it, it was swarming with maggots. And I mean MAGGOTS. I ran back inside shrieking. I remember my mom telling me that it was my fault for leaving the fish there, so too bad, I had to throw it out. To this day, I can’t remember what happened next.
But a few days ago, I opened the trashcan in my kitchen, and guess what? Fucking maggots! I screamed and ran in a little circle. My kid asked what was wrong and I told him: MAGGOTS! He disappeared into his room. My neighbor Alec is my go-to person for Man Stuff when my husband isn’t there. Alec has thrown out dead possums, has drilled holes and once even cut down a tree for me. Alec is out of town, so I called Bruce, and left a message. Then I called my adopted son Chris (the Ex-Anton) who told me to get rubber gloves and some pesticide. Bruce called back and told me to take the trashcan outside for the extermination project.
I bought some elbow-length bright yellow gloves that made me feel ready to kill anything. I sprayed some bug spray into the can with my eyes closed. After a while, I carried the can outside and blasted it with spray from every angle. Finally, I felt that the maggots were dead. “Not only really dead, but really most sincerely dead!”
I really fucking hate maggots. The moral of this story is: Make sure you have plenty of friends for Man Stuff, and don’t leave your fish in the garage.