While the world watches Anthony Weiner’s struggle to become mayor of New York City, I’ve got real problems.
I have gnats. Little black swarming devils have taken over my now-scrubbed-clean kitchen (yes, even those spaces between the stove and the counter).
We’ve lived in our home for 17 years, and aside from a plague of tiny ants in the kitchen once, we’ve been pretty bug-free.
Our son was 6 when we moved in, and I made a Motherly/Wifely Decree that no food be gnawed outside the kitchen. Except for the occasional popcorn and pizza, we’ve stuck to that edict. (I won’t go into the gory details of a certain 8-year-old’s indiscretion about leaving his half-eaten ham sandwich in the lunchbox under his bed, only discovered when school started two months later. No, I won’t go there.)
On to the gnats — I scrubbed, and bleached areas where I thought the little buggers might go, and I also removed plants from the living room when I read gnats lay eggs in moist soil.
Gnashing my teeth, I was frustrated that nothing worked, so I turned to the best folks for advice —Old Wives.
About two-thirds of the women in my Bible study group, The Power Lifters at St. Luke Lutheran Church, are widows over 70, and always an excellent source of information.
Recently, a mother and daughter duo hosted a luncheon for the group. The daughter and I sat at the “kids table” reserved for those under sixty.
The “girls” as I like to call our Elder Stateswomen advised me to try vinegar and water mixed with a dab of dish soap.
So home I went, dishing out the blue Palmolive along with my remarkable organic raw, unfiltered apple cider vinegar (you know the kind with messages written all over the label) and poured the slumgullion into a flat dish. Nothing happened.