I HATE BUGS.
When the husband is around, I don't really have to worry about killing them because I just point and squeal like a little girl and he immediately becomes my knight in shining armor. He saves the day squishes the bug, and then gets rid of the body. Ick.
Last night, when I was turning out lights and heading to bed, I noticed a dead bug in the corner of the room. Ugh. Normally, I will suck them up in a vacuum so as not to have to directly touch them at all. Even through a napkin, I can FEEL them and it just freaks me out. Well, the munchkin was sleeping of course. No Vacuum. My inner little girl whined. I had to be brave and pick it up with a napkin. I decided that I would tackle this challenge head on. I would proudly put my big girl panties on. For all women everywhere, I would pick up that bug and flush it down the toilet. I had resolve!
I walked into the bathroom and grabbed enough toilet paper to protect myself. I calmly walked over to the bug and reached down to smother it with the tissue. I picked it up and started to walk to the bathroom when all of a sudden IT STARTED WIGGLING!!!
ICK! ICK! ICK! IIIIIIIICK!!!
I dropped it and jumped about eight feet in the air. New plan. Forget about the munchkin and suck up the bug that was obviously playing possum. The bug was going to die--it had messed with the wrong military wife!
As I was frantically trying to get the vacuum plugged in and fired up, all I could think about was how the ONE TIME I had decided to be brave, the bug came alive. And almost ate me. Of course that last part is not true--that's why it's an irrational fear, I guess.
