Last week, I helped host a bridal shower for a friend. One of the games involved listing the letters of the bride and groom's names and then writing a word for that letter that described some aspect of marriage.
We had the usual suspects: rings, matrimony, friendship, til death do you part etc.
The best, though, was one entry for the letter 'B': Bug Killer
I come from strong Swedish stock on my mother's side. We do not faint. We do not scream. We kill our own bugs.
Case in point: My grandmother. She is two short generations away from the Old Country and she has always been remarkably self-sufficient. Once, when I was young, I remember her spotting a fat black spider on her living room wall. She "tsked" (yes, she does actually tsk), walked right up to it, and SMASHED IT WITH HER BARE HAND.
My mother was the second person ever in our family to marry a non-Swede so since my blood is a bit diluted, I use a paper towel. The point is, however, I can kill bugs. I've smashed spiders, swept them down from the ceiling and hunted them with a shoe, yanked a wasp out of my toddler's hair and flung it to the ground, and once, in an ill-fated effort to be a good wife, I slapped a mosquito to death. (The fact that it was currently on my husband's cheek caused some small controversy)
But I DO NOT DO MOTHS.
Little fluttery things that won't stay in one place and just keep coming no matter what. I hate them. Passionately. My hubby has to kill them for me because I leave the room as fast as dignity will allow.
I still do not faint (and give them a chance to roost on me? Not likely). Nor do I scream. (God knows one of them would fly right down my throat.)
I can't explain this irrational fear. It doesn't jibe with my grandmother or my Mom who take on anything with the unmitigated gall to sail through their front door.
My husband accepts this part of me and willingly takes on the role of MOTH KILLER. I unplug all the toilets and clean up vomit. He kills moths. It's a fair trade.