Missing: One Sense of Humor, And a Healthy Respect for Fire

You guys, I have some bad news.
I think I lost my funny.

But man, it was a great week, right? Like that time I got all cracked out on Dunkin Donuts coffee and started talking about breakdancing on my kitchen floor. And that other time when I had an imaginary conversation with Milo? Brilliant.
What? That was yesterday?
Whatever. Don’t interrupt me.

I’m not quite sure when exactly I lost my funny. It might have been last night, when Brian announced that the bees – the ones who have built a ground nest right in the goddamn center of where I’m trying to have my wedding and have been getting increasingly aggressive and may or may not have swarmed Brian the other night when he was working in the yard (it’s hard to get answers out of him; he’s such a bad-ass, macho DUDE when it comes to admitting that he got assaulted by insects). Anyway, last night he tells me all nonchalantly that he’s planning on blowing them up.

I’m not even kidding.

And I know he’s a firefighter in all, which in theory makes the fact that he’s planning on saturating the ground with gasoline, lighting a match, and running like hell a teeny, tiny bit safer, but I’m starting to learn that firefighters are actually kind of obsessed with fire in a not so safe, “hey, lets get liquored up and burn things” kind of way, and on top of that? A little cocky when it comes to an accurate assessment of their own personal flammability, which actually makes it less safe in the end and their chances of getting burned are actually increased by, like 34% or something.

[sidenote: he tried to brand me once over the summer. “What am I, a piece of meat?” I said to him. “NOW you’re finally getting it,” he said. Our relationship is totally magical.]

So, yeah, I’m concerned.

“Can you at least do it when Chris is over tomorrow?” I ask.
Because Chris is the guy who is good at everything construction/yard/ home improvement-related and is really, really practical to boot, and even talked Brian out of getting up on the roof that one time.

“No, I have to do it at night, when they’re all in the nest.” He said.

Then,
“Hey, wanna hold the flashlight for me while I do this”

And yeah, I’m not going to lie. Being an accessory to insecticide by fire and brimstone kind of floats my boat, especially when these insects are likely to sting me on the day when I’m supposed to look my prettiest and – importantly – NOT start cursing like a sailor, flailing my arms and probably rip out my veil while swatting away their kamikaze strikes.
(Call me old fashioned, but I’ve always imagined a wedding that didn’t include anaphylactic shock.)

Also, really, who DOESN’T like to blow things up?

But then my mind started playing back all the times that Brian has hurt himself since I’ve known him.

And when I was remembering the 12th or 13th incident in which he almost very nearly died, I had to admit that despite my desire to kill the bees and despite my love of all things explosive, I sudden realized that there was no way in hell that I was going to let him play with gasoline and matches.
No way.
Not on my watch.

So we went back inside and he watched me paint a couple of kitchen cabinet doors that he had removed and sanded about 2 years ago in an admirable effort to re-do his kitchen and then kind of…stopped? And since I’ve lived in that house, three cabinets have been doorless, which is all fine and good, but you can’t really host a wedding at your house with missing cabinet doors, now can you.

I dunno.
It must be a men are from Mars, women are from Venus thing, except replace “Venus” with “a world in which common sense and rationality prevail.”
Or something like that.