Let Baygons be Baygons

Last night, as I was giving the LGBB her rollover feed, I heard spraying. Full on, aggressive sounding spraying of the can kind. PSHHHHHHHT! 'Far out', I thought, 'Steve's found something scary, probably with eight legs. How gallant that he's doing something about it before I get back out there.' Note I didn't use the word "kill"... just can't ask him to do it.

Then a few seconds later, PSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHT!! again. Another 20 second burst of spray noise. 'Shit, the bastard must be huge, I thought, as I imagined a now-dizzy huntsman doing an Elaine Benis-type dance on the floor.

Poor thing, though. I don't like crawly things inside, as evidenced here, but I hate to kill them just because I don't like them in my house. It's something that causes me great internal turmoil.

So there I was, with sounds of insect repellant filling my ears, and by the sounds of it, Steve had now sprayed enough to stop a herd (do huntsmen travel in herds?? I bet they do, like wildebeast) of the things and I was actually starting to think 'Oh come ON, that's a bit of overkill' - boom-tish.

When I got out the door, I didn't find my husband climbing the breast of a hairy beast, Michael Douglas shirt-off-with-sword Romancing The Stone style. Instead, he was doing dishes, as per my earlier request to rinse off some of the LGBB's little cups before that rice cereal set like Plaster of Paris. PSHHHHHHHT went the tap as he added more hot water.

Oh.