Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Lee's post-frisbee ritual involves taking his disgustingly wet shirt and smelly cleats to the basement for a thorough Febreeze-ing. Me, still a contender for "Wife of the Year 2010", offered to take the smellies to the basement for him since hopping is not a good way to get down stairs, especially if you're carrying things. He said he could do it, but no, it's the duty of awesome wives to take the smellies to the basement when Lee's injured.
So I start to go down to the basement, but... there is a cricket on the bottom stair.
I don't like bugs. They're at the heart of why I avoid the outdoors, why I'm afraid to weed my garden (I've heard some creep-tastic ground bees stories that started with innocent gardening.), why I'm a little sad our house came with so many plants and trees, and why the creepy unfinished part of the basement is creepy.
There was this one nasty cricket incident when I was in middle school and trying to use this red liquid from my orthodontist that would help me see where I wasn't brushing well since I had just gotten braces that resulted in red goo on the walls and blood-curdling screams in the night.
So last night Lee used his arms and good leg to get down the stairs to kill the cricket and put away his smelly shirt and cleats. After that, I took excellent care of him, but apparently my fear of crickets trumps my wifely kindness. I don't think either of us are surprised by this.