Sometimes a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do…
I can testify that a woman can even change a toilet seat--as I did last night since my husband is out of town and the old seat came off in my hands (I was trying to write my name in the snow...).
However, I did chatter constantly while doing it and it was nerve-wrackingly high-pitched even to me.
I am about to kill and maim bed bugs, as we have sighted one in my son's room. I have no remorse and am not even slightly horrifed by killing them. Last August when we were infested, I even named the ones I used as test subjects to verify the pesticide worked (Edward, Bella, Carlisle, Alice and a trio of old, hard to kill bugs I called the Volturi). If I find another, I will name, maim, and destroy it, too.
I’m a wee bit ticked off that he commandeered my specially-purchased bed-bug pesticide sprayer. I can’t prove it, but the new sprayer is now neatly labeled “Round-up” and we all know I don’t label anything--except people who drive slower than me (slo-mo’s) and Wyoming Highway Patrolmen (Officer I-Need-More-Fiber-In-My-Diet). That’s an entirely different post, however.
I found the old sprayer, under a shelf in the spider-infested region of the garage. Did I scream or cry or throw a fit? Yes, and the neighbors are now shunning me. After that, I rolled the dead-spider-coated sprayer on the wet grass to sanitize it. Opened a Diet Coke, took a long-burning swig—I’m good.