About an hour ago, I was sitting in the TV room, scanning through the on-screen guide, when my six-year-old came in to chat. After a moment, she looked up toward the top of a window and said, “Daddy, what kind of bug is that walking around on the glass?”
I followed her eyes, then answered, “Well, Sara, that looks a … HOLY @#$%!!”
I try not to teach her four-letter words, but the shock overcame my inhibitions. I hustled her out of the room and exchanged my shorts and tee-shirt for what is apparently becoming my official wasp-hunting gear: jeans, a shirt, a sweatshirt with a hood, a windbreaker with a hood, and winter gloves.
I went to the laundry room, picked up the can of Raid, and was dismayed to find it felt nearly empty. I gave it one little test squirt … okay, it wasn’t empty, but I hate going into battle with a flying demon short on chemical ammunition.
The window goes all the way to the ceiling, so of course that’s where the wasp was when I returned: right up by the ceiling, still prancing around on the glass. I climbed up on the sofa near the window and balanced one foot on an arm, another on the back. I extended my weapon slooowwwly until I was sure I close enough to guarantee a direct hit.
PFFFFFFFFFFFT!!
The wasp fell, and I was sure for a moment it would wind up behind the sofa, leaving me with no option but to get back there and look for it … thus assuring myself of an ambush by one very pissed-off wasp. Fortunately, the wasp landed on a window sill, rolled onto its back, and kicked its legs for awhile, calling me a mother@#$%*! the whole time.
It’s in the garbage can outside now. I would’ve written about this earlier, but my hands just stopped shaking a minute ago.
Damn, I hate those things.
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