You need an invitation to party at my house. If you don't have one, I'll probably blog about it angrily later.

My sickness is increasing seemingly in direct negative correlation with the volume and strength of my voice. Today I stayed home from church to rest and recuperate before work starts up again tomorrow and in doing so I realize something: none of these flies fear me.

After I tried and failed to kill any flies with my semi-nude screaming, and after Peter had composed himself and decided to help, he took to murdering the pests with his belt. We took turns hitting them and smooshing them, and tag teaming our hits, and it really seemed all sorts of effective. Here's a photo I took of Peter in action:

This morning as we were having breakfast, he noted that we seemed to have squelched the problem, cause there were no more flies. YAY! 

Then he left. AND THEY RETURNED TO TAUNT ME. 

What has happened?? I was a fearsome beast capable of striking fear into the hearts of bugs, and now I am being bullied by flies. This is uncool. It seems that my help in killing the bugs was actually incredibly limited, and they are in fact only afraid of my mighty, belt wielding husband. 

Here's a picture I took of me unhappy in bed: 

This information that flies don't fear my wrath is upsetting, but for more reasons than you might think. 

It seems the longer we are married, the more I realize that I am NOT a strong, independent woman who don't need a man (I tried to write "no" man, but the existence of a double negative on my blog, even if ironically, was too painful to permit.) I'm all about feminism, and in fact I'm 100% sure that on a later date I will write a "Feminism Guide for Dummies: Misandrists and Misogynists Need Not Apply" because I'm so constantly amazed at how many people tell me, "Well, I'm not a feminist or anything." Really? You're not? I think you may be. Do you think men and women aren't equal? I'm sincerely interested. 

Okay, hang on. Need to work out my original point again. 

Right, I'm all about feminism. Since getting married, though, I find myself foiled by things such as stubborn jar lids. 

"I. Can. Do. It." I strain, pulling on a lid. "I. Can. Do. It." chanting determinedly while a vein bursts somewhere in my skull 

"Need help?" Peter offers, 

"I. Can. Do. It." I continue to insist, until I eventually give myself a friction burn on my hand, have an aneurism, or crap my pants, whatever happens first. 

Dozens of jars that Peter has opened for me and now these dumb flies attest to me I can't survive on my own, and in fact this marriage is one of necessity, not just romance.