Andrea's column: My hero
My husband is devoted to me, our children and grandkids. He's a hard worker, good provider, a man of integrity. One of my fiends calls him "Poor John." Sometimes, I feel sorry for him, too. Let's face it: I'm a lot of work and, as I've said over and over to anyone who will listen, I don't deserve this guy.
That said, and I think I've said this before, sometimes he makes me crazy. For instance, he's never met a door he wants to close or a light he wants to switch off. Walk through our house and there will be at least one closet door left wide open. Inside, the overhead light burns bright.
He likes to hold open the door leading from the garage to the kitchen, too. While I slip quickly into the kitchen, slam the door shut behind me as fast as I can, my hubby stands in the doorway and starts a conversation with me.
"Get in here!" I say. "You're letting in every rodent and insect in the county." He rolls his eyes and assures me there are no mice or flying pests trying to invade our house.
Last week he was proven to be oh-so-wrong. I heard the door open when he got home from the store but never heard it shut. Soon, a giant thing swooped back and forth through the living room and then, zoomed into the bedroom where I was talking on the phone.
If you've ever had a flying arthropod dive towards your head, you know why I screamed bloody murder. Whatever it was -- stinging bee, huge house fly or mean horsefly -- kept buzzing around the room and refused to land so I could identify it.
My husband came in to find out what the commotion was about. The interloper was nowhere to be found. We turned on the ceiling fan in the bedroom to roust it from its hiding place and opened the deck door in the living room hoping the outdoor noises and scents would entice it to the screen. My hubby assured me it was nothing to worry about. "Just a fly," he said.
Just a fly? I have feared flies since the movie "The Fly" was released in 1958. The scary science fiction movie starred the king of horror films, Vincent Price.
One poster for the flick shows a woman screaming. The caption reads, "Once it was human -- even as you and I." Another shows a picture of a giant white-headed fly. Both were enough for 11-year-old me to know this was not my type of picture show. Or house pet.
The zooming beast surfaced again the next day; walking around and around the handle of the curling brush I'd left on the bathroom vanity. I grabbed a washcloth and gave the trespasser a hard thwack. It bounced onto the counter and just as I went in for another hit, buzzed off to the wall.
I told my husband the menace was scaling the wall above the bathtub. Before I knew it, my better half had one foot on the tub and the other on the ledge above it as he raised his arm above his head to wallop the intruder with a rolled-up hand towel.
As he whipped it against the wall a second time, I couldn't help but think of a poster for an Indiana Jones movie.
My protector missed his mark again but still, the fly knew this was truly a hunter to fear. The next morning it surrendered. Left the bathroom and dropped dead on the bedroom floor. My husband raised his arm in victory.