How to NOT kill a wasp

  1. Find a British husband paranoid of wasps (the British part is optional but it does help in the cursing part)
  2. Get said husband to become obsessed with barbecuing on a beautiful sunny Saturday.
  3. Give husband a few potatoes to cook with onion dip to make them attract wasps.
  4. Have husband curse as wasps approach. (British curses add a certain gusto to the entire experience).
  5. Have said husband come into house swear he will kill the wasps, find a swatter and step outside only to run back in because wasp was ‘right there!’
  6. Have husband swear even more imaginatively than before involving all the wasp’s predecessors and progeny.
  7. Encourage husband to stay indoors only to have him bolt right back outside.
  8. Watch British husband dance around outside batting his hat at the air while the wasp meanders away completely unperturbed.

Toil and Trouble Tuesday: Fridge disaster

When my husband decided to clean the fridge, I foresaw doom. Not that I’m clairvoyant or anything, I just know the man. Cough, Jeep incident, cough.

I tried to stop him but he gets a little stubborn about certain things. Next thing I knew, every item from the fridge was on the granite counter and he was scrubbing at one of the shelves. Hubby wasn’t satisfied with the level of cleanliness he had attained, so he pulled the glass shelf from its plastic cover.

Turns out, glass and granite do not like each other. As in, do not drop a glass shelf on a granite counter. Granite wins every time.

With a soft crack, the glass shelf broke into about a million pieces that, thanks to our open-concept house, scattered everywhere, the kitchen, the dining room, living room and hallway.


First things first, I got our two doggies and their vulnerable paws into my office away from the dangerous glass. Then, while my hubby ran through his entire repertoire of British curse words, I closed the door and planned murder.

Cleaning glass is not fun. It doesn’t clean up easily or well. Hours later, there were still pieces hiding in the grout between tiles, in the cracks by the wall, under furniture. Everywhere. Out came the wet vac, then hubby mopped, then I crawled on my hands and knees looking for any leftover, little shards that would hurt doggie paws.

But, when you’re a writer…revenge is sweet. I told him he’d make a post on the blog. 😀

On the importance of my inner child

I’ve done nothing all day. I didn’t go to the gym, I didn’t do any work, I didn’t even write. I just sat on my couch and watched episode after episode of CSI and Modern Family. I think my brain has shrunk about five inches but it was delicious.

My husband, the therapist, was confused until I told him I was ‘self-caring’ and ‘feeding my inner child’. Therapists consider everyone’s inner child sacrosanct and there’s nothing more important to them than self-care.

As soon as I said those words, his eyes widened and he rushed to prepare dinner–just in case my inner child was hungry. I did feel a little guilty when I saw him folding laundry but I got over it. I’m going to go read now.

Caring for my inner child is so important. 😀



Jeep + therapist = disaster

My lovely hubby is fanatical about my Jeep. He insists on cleaning it at least once a week. I’m less picky. I figure, it’s a Jeep; dirt adds character.

A few days ago, I drove through a construction site and somehow got some paint or tar or something on the Jeep’s paint. My husband almost hit the roof. He insisted he had to remove the stuff and he had to do so immediately. He got that look in his eyes that said: Taylor, stay away from me. I thought: Writing time! and went for my laptop.

An hour later, I walked outside to a nightmare.

Apparently, my therapist husband couldn’t get the paint or tar or whatever the heck it was, off with a cloth, so he tried something harsher.


Note: he used the green side.

The paint splatters were gone…so was the Jeep’s paint. Instead of the uniform, sandy yellow, my Jeep was now a spotted mess of lighter and darker shades of white. It looked like some sort of checker board. And the scratches were everywhere. Not one to leave a job half-done, my hubby had ‘cleaned’ every surface, front, sides and back.

To his credit, he was in horrified and felt very sorry. To mine, I told him it was only a thing and replaceable.

After I mentally added him to the list of characters who die in my next book.

Note: for those of you who need closure (a happy ending), we did take the vehicle to the shop where the owner (another Jeep driver) almost fainted, then proceeded to buff the coat with an obviously magical cream that removed every trace of those scratches. Except for a few minute marks, the Jeep is as good as new. And full of character.