It appears as though this squeezing of households – our son’s and ours – still has a ways to go. I’ve never wanted a separate laundry room more than I do right now. It’s in the garage, which can give way to my ultimate fear – spiders.
Ok, so maybe my fear of crickets is a bit disproportional, but I have good reason. One of those bastards jumped on me at a lovely garden party one balmy summer evening a number of years ago. I screamed as if I’d been murdered with a rusty butter knife and tossed my drink into the face of the host. The host freaked and slammed into his wife’s Bloody Mary, spilling it over her white Ann Klein dress. The chain reaction was minimized by the confines of the swimming pool, which, to this day, still amazes anyone who discusses what has become known as
This won’t work, I tell #1 son. Those smelly little mud bugs have to go into the backyard. No, no, he protests, they’ll die if they’re outside. WHAT? That’s where they freaking live! I scream
Turns out that tolerance is the mother of malevolence, and I am destined to be held captive in its steely vise until hell freezes over. I will allow the damned crickets to invade my garage. But I swear on all that’s holy, that if I find one spindly legged creature in my Victoria Secrets, they and #1 son will take up residence under a freeway underpass.
Good god. I don’t need to write fiction because no one would believe my real life.