Don't Bug Me

We were watching TV last night, when all of a sudden, Mr. Ginley jumped up and yelled, "What's that?"

Fearing a home invasion of some sort, I was on my feet at once.

"Where, where?" I cried.

"There, on the ceiling. Get the thing and kill it."

For the uninitiated, in this case, he was referring to the fly swatter. Which, of course, I couldn't instantly lay hands on.

Rushing over, he grabbed it, muttering about my inability to find anything, and took a swipe at the fluttering target, which had landed conveniently on the wall.

He missed.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"It's a moth," I identified. 

By this time, it had reached the ceiling. He handed me the swatter.

"Kill it!" he commanded.

I got a chair, stood up to my full 5'1" height, and waved ineffectively at the ceiling.

"I can't reach it," I said, overstating the obvious.

A few more expletives were muttered as he grabbed the weapon, climbed the chair and successfully smote the intruder. It tumbled onto the easy chair.

"Get a tissue! Get a tissue! Get rid of it!" he ordered.

I executed my duties as swiftly as I could, feeling the satisfying crunch of the now-deceased insect. 

Disposing of the body, I returned the chair to its place, and we were free to go about our business, bug-free.

Let's just say, I was very glad I didn't tell Mr. about the yellow jacket I spied in the light fixture by the back door when I came home the other night. I dispatched the little stinger by leaving the light on, thereby to roast in his own juices.

I'll dispose of the carcass later. As in, the next time we change the light bulb.

Oh, that's right. I can't reach that high.

Oops.