Some of you may know Andrew’s nickname as Bug or Uncle Bug. I am not really sure how that came about, but I feel like it may be one of those nicknames like calling a fat guy Tiny.
Andrew doesn’t like bugs. Not even cute fake pretty plastic ones. He especially doesn’t like them when he finds them poking out from under his keyboard, or in his running shoes while on a trip to Nicaragua. The problem with this is I delight in both the bugs and the squealing and screeching that occurs when Andrew comes upon these bugs.
In light of my joy I regularly attempt to find new ways to scare the Dakota Fanning eek out of Andrew. Last weekend I was on my way out the door. I patted Andrew on the shoulders and walked out of his office. I came back to say goodbye again and when he turned to me I said, “Is there something on your shoulder.” Andrew turned his head, yelped, jumped out of his office chair and practically hit his head on the ceiling as I practically hit my head on the floor crying in laughter.
It’s not that Andrew doesn’t understand that the bugs are plastic. It’s not that he cannot touch them of his own accord when he desires (which is rare). I think it may be that he just knows that those kind of bugs do exist and he gets squeamish at the prospect of them being a reality.
So you can imagine my surprise when, last night, as I lay in bed getting comfortable to sleep, I felt a plastic roach under my pillow. Do not imagine my surprise to be that of Andrew’s. No. My surprise was intertwined with exhilarated mirth at knowing (and saying), “Someone didn’t think this through.”
“Did you put this roach under my pillow?”
And that is when the roach started dancing on Andrews arms with its own little doodoodoo theme song. On backup was a mix of Andrew laughing hysterically and crying for me to take it off of him.
I did. Mostly because Andrew was trying to wrestle the roach out of my hands. I didn’t want it to get hurt. And, having combined the concept of the roach with its very own song, I no longer needed the bug.