One of the awful parts about living in the South in the summer are the mosquitoes. Especially because we live on the water, we have to be wary of those little buggers. It seems like no matter how hard we try, one or two always follow us in the front door. We are obsessed with finding and killing these pests, and they know how to hide. Each death is a personal victory that Bob and I bestow on ourselves, but this week Bob took it to a new level...
As we are laying in bed last night, I point up to the wall and say, "Look at that little spider." This is the conversation that ensues:
Bob (looking sheepish): That is not a spider
Me (coming to the realization of how this conversation is going to play out): It's a dead mosquito, isn't it
Bob: Yeah, I think I killed it last week
Me: Well, then go clean it up, that is disgusting!
Bob: No, it is serving as a lesson to all mosquitoes that if they mess with me that is what will happen to them
Nice. Whatever makes my husband feel like a superior human warrior...
