Last night Blaine and I were sitting and talking on the couch. Then out of the corner of my eye I noticed a monstrous dark mysterious thing over on the kitchen wall. I thought it was probably a killer tarantula or something. I walked over to find out it was a wasp. Seriously, aren't they all supposed to be dead by now or hibernating or just....elsewhere? (speaking of, I should do an entire post about "things that can sting" in Texas, did you know there are like seven hundred types of wasps and all of them are indigenous to Austin, TX? Seriously. Red wasps and black wasps are huge and mean and scarier than anything anyone who has lived in Utah has ever seen. Swear.)
So my valiant husband went on a wasp hunt. It took about five minutes of chasing it and swatting at it and girlish screams (I'm not saying whether they came from me or him), but finally the darn thing wound up in the sink, we turned on the water and the disposal and that was that. Except that wasn't that. Blaine felt so guilty killing it in such a ruthless way since it never did anything to us. Seriously? And then he went off on some kick about how the disposaled wasp would be waiting to torture him when he died and that made him nervous. Really nervous.
And that is when I reminded him that he sprayed pest control for a living for two years (or was it three?). And then we tried to grasp the sheer number of bees, wasps, and other creepy crawly things that would be waiting for him.
And for the first time I thought, maybe it's okay if we don't die at like the exact same second. Maybe Blaine needs like a ten minute head start. Because, ewwwwwwwwww.