Wednesday, May 19, 2010
If you weren’t one of the people driving past me as I walked to pick up Bob from pre-school last Friday, here’s what you missed: Me, an average-y looking woman in jeans, t-shirt, mom hair (pony-tail) and mom make-up (sunglasses) walking at a moderate pace, headed south. Suddenly, without warning, I ripped off my sunglasses, clutched my left eye in both hands, hopped up and down and loudly recited all of the colorful language that I know. I know a lot. I looked crazy and for a moment, I was.
There was something in my eye. Not a regular eyelash-dust-mote something but a burning-ember-branding-iron something. I jammed my finger into the corner of my eye trying to get my watering eye to water even more and release what I was sure was a smoldering Presto Log. It didn’t work.
By the time I made it to school, my eye was watering a little less but still throbbing. I kept my sunglasses on, grabbed Bob and made a quick exit. When we got back to the house, I poured a bottle of Visine into my left eye. Now my eye was throbbing, my nose was running and I could taste Visine in the back of my throat.
I held a wet washcloth over my eye as I WebMD’ed “sudden blindness“ and “eye disease symptoms.” My in-house physician, 4 year-old Dr. Bob, advised that I have a glass of water and a hug. I popped two Tylenols with the glass of water and the hugging. I then resorted to the action that has never revealed anything in the history of all things in my eye, I went into the bathroom, held up my eyelid and looked at my eye in the mirror. That’s when the screaming started.
There was a large, dead black fly in my eye. Not a little gnat, but a large housefly. After at one time experiencing an infant projectile vomiting directly into my mouth and reacting with laughter, I know that my gross-out threshold is extremely high. This meant nothing now. I was, to use a formal psychological term, freaking-the-hell-out.
Bob ran in to see what I was yelling about and when I explained through my whimpering that there was a fly in my eye, he advised that I let it loose in the yard because, “maybe the fly’s family was looking for him.” I clarified that there was a dead fly in my eye. Dead. Fly. In my eye. Because I killed it. With my eye.
Bob then suggested I calm down. He next suggested that I take the fly out of my eye. His idea seemed less invasive than my own idea, which involved removing my entire cootied out eyeball and socket. I followed Bob’s direction and after a few dozen tries, I was able to retrieve the fly corpse from my throbbing eye with a Q-tip.
I have now awarded my killer left eye the nickname, “The Exterminator.” Please call with any pest control needs. I’ll work on curbing the screams.
Labels: ew just ew