We grilled out over the weekend, burgers and a veggie medley. After I had finished mixing the burger ingredients and forming the meat into patties, Greg asked, “Are we grilling these?” But he asked it in a really pained way, as he always does lately when we’re grilling. You would think that I had just asked him to replace the roof of our house all by himself.

I offered to grill the food instead and told him that he could stay in the kitchen to make the vinaigrette for the veggies and slice up some fruit. I told him that I was tired of being in the kitchen. He was lucky, always hanging out on our covered back porch watching the birds fly about. Greg warned me that the grill is hot. I reminded him that I’ve grilled things many times when he hasn’t been home.

I placed the burgers on the grill, and then brought out the veggies that Greg had seasoned. I had to move the burgers over a little to fit the veggie basket on the grill, but they hadn’t cooked enough yet to hold together, and they crumbled into pieces. Great. Now Greg was going to think I was an incompetent girl and I’d be banished back to the kitchen.

I started to dump the veggies into the basket on the grill. If had been standing any closer, I would have lost my eyebrows. I peered into the bowl at the remaining veggies. Greg had bathed them in oil. Or maybe I should say drowned. Meanwhile, the veggies already on the grill were being smoked by flames about a foot high (this is on a gas grill, mind you). Greg could see the flames and smoke from the kitchen and came out to check on me.

“How much oil did you put on these things?” I ask, exasperated. “Greg, you only need a tiny bit of oil.”

We decide that our job switch has been an epic disaster and agree to trade off.

A few minutes later, Greg carries the burgers and blackened veggies into the house. Abe follows him in. And there’s something wrong with Abe’s face. His beard is all slicked down. I tell Greg that Abe looks like some sort of sleazy greaser who’s going out cruising for chicks, not unlike some of the guys we’ve just been watching on the Sopranos.

“You mean he looks like a guy named Romeo?” Greg asks. (Romeo was the name Abe had when we adopted him.)

“Exactly,” I say.

Greg says that Abe really likes olive oil. And he knows this because he dumped some of the oil from the veggies into our yard, and Abe ran to the spot to lick it up. So now we’re back to me in the kitchen, Greg watching the grill and Romeo looking for ladies.

Last weekend I decided to dig up the flower bed in front of our house and start over. Most of the things I had planted had become overgrown because that’s how it works in Texas — you either shrivel up and die or become mammoth.

I apparently disrupted the lives of two wasps during my planting, and they decided that our front door was the best place in the world to reside. Greg and I have looked up information on this type of wasp before because we see them everywhere. They’re supposedly dumber than a block of wood, but I’m pretty sure these two on our front door are smarter than the rest.

They haven’t built a nest. They just spend the entire day sitting on they front door so that every time I go outside, I duck and run as fast as I can like a soldier expecting enemy fire. They’ve got a vendetta.

I had started to adjust to them. They mainly sit near the hinged side of the door, so when I open it, they fly away. But in the past day or two, they have started to sit on the crack where the door opens, and I’m afraid they’re going to fly into the house.

When Abe and I returned from a walk this morning, one was sitting on the upper right corner of the door. I just knew that if I opened the door, if would swing on into the glorious air-conditioned house. And if Greg were here, that would be fine because once that sucker was inside we would have a good excuse to kill it. Greg’s out of town though. And I was not going to have that giant pest flitting about my kitchen.

But how could I make it move? Lob an object? I had a plastic bad with dog poo in it from the walk. Why not?

I aimed and nearly hit the wasp. It left its perch, and Abe and I scrambled inside. Abe had no idea what was going on, but he was very excited because we were running.

A short while later, I went back out to run. Of course, when I returned the wasp had come back, and I didn’t have anything good to fling. I started grabbing woodchips from the flower bed, but my aim was not nearly so great with these. They weighed a lot less. I spent five minutes and still hadn’t hit it. Geez, I couldn’t spend all day out here. I’m sure people driving past thought I had lost my mind.

I finally got really bold. I crouched down, sneaked up to the door, opened it just a crack and slammed it shut. I bolted away and looked back. The wasp had left again.

At this point, I think it’s easier to stay inside. Oh sure, I know it’s ridiculous being held hostage by wasps. But what really worries me is that thing about them being dumber than a block of wood. If they are, and I’m this frightened of them, what does that say about me?

Abe is smart. Very smart. He now very clearly knows the phrase, “Oh, dear!” Whenever it is uttered by Sarah, which is fairly often, he knows that there is food that has just fallen to the floor. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s just parsley, but he’ll still come running. Truth be told, I’m not sure whose habit is more entertaining.