About four years ago, we moved closer to my husband's workplace. What used to be a 45 minute one-way commute (hello, Houston) is now 8 minutes. So, on occasion, I have the pleasure of seeing my husband at lunch.
Our story falls one beautiful autumn day the first year in the house. My husband and I were sitting across the kitchen table, staring fondly into one another's eyes, connecting soul-to-soul through small talk, when a buzzing came from behind me. A wasp zoomed over my shoulder and straight at my husband. I have no idea where it came from. The windows and doors were shut. Perhaps he metamorphosed from thin air.
After our heart rates returned to normal, we finished lunch and my husband was about to head back to work.
"Wait! You have to kill the wasp before you leave." That's what God gave us husbands for, right?
Hubby grabs his weapon of choice: a full roll of paper towels. I mean, really, was this guy serious?
"What are you going to do? Pillow it to death?" I held out my hand. "Give me your shoe." (I was barefoot.)
My husband took off his shoe and handed it to me. No questions asked. Only a simple admonition. "Don't break the window."
What had worked for me on multiple occasions was to wait until the big-bad-bug was in the window. I'd close the blinds, then whack the guts out of the wasp through the blinds. That way, even if I missed the first time (inevitable), it'd be caught and I could keep whacking until the job was done.
Except - new house. Instead of the nice, thick windows we had at our old place, these were made up of individual panes no thicker than photo glass.
The wasp did as wasps do. I twisted the vertical blinds shut and raised the shoe in preparation for the death stroke. Only --
"Don't do that," Hubby said. "It won't kill him."
I ignored him. This had worked in the past, hadn't it?
I'm firmly convinced that if I hadn't interfered with my husband or he hadn't interfered with me, things would have been fine. Unfortunately, we sabotaged each other. To prove a point, I swung harder than usual to make sure I killed it. I missed the wasp, of course, but managed to connect full-force with the window, which shattered.
Meanwhile, Mr. Wasp sat on the broken pane happy as could be.
The window was already broken, so it couldn't hurt for me to swing again, right? Me, shoe, whack ... but this time I missed both the wasp and the window (don't ask). Then it happened. The wasp flew out the broken window never to be seen again.
No yelling or I-told-you-so from my man. Hubby's awesome like that. Able to laugh at my hare-brained destruction of our home. He knew what was going to happen and let me do it anyway.
As he left for work he said, "When you go to Home Depot to get a new window pane, I'm going to need some silicone too."
Because nothing with home repair is ever simple, the pre-cut panes at Home Depot were too small. Then we measured a window pane from the top half of the window (11-1/4 x 13-1/4 inches) which happened to be a different size than the ones on the bottom (10-5/8 x 14). Go figure. It took a week and four different panes, but we (he) finally repaired the window.
After the job was complete, my husband, ever the pragmatist, told me me, "You know, I would have stunned the wasp with the paper towels, and then I could have stepped on him."
So I gave him the only reply I could. "But I had your shoe!"
Wondering about the moral of this story? Simple: I'm a girl with really, truly bad aim and a very patient husband.