First, there was a wasp in my office and, with Paul giving annoying wasp-killing advice from the safety of the first floor, I managed to whack the creature and give it a watery burial in the toilet. This was two days ago. Then yesterday, there was another wasp in my office, which doesn’t seem fair. Still, I gamely smacked it with a magazine — and it flew directly into the closet, which I swear was open no more than half an inch.
When the wasp wouldn’t come out of the closet, I complained about it to Paul, who said, helpfully, that it would probably come out and sting me in the night.
Please understand that he was joking — our humor tends toward the sarcastic. Now, normally, sarcasm doesn’t bug me (ha ha, get it?) but wasps are too scary to mess with and so I snapped at him that I didn’t find his humor amusing and asked why, in fact, I should be the one hunting the wasp. He looked surprised and a little hurt and said, “But honey, you’re the bee killer in this family.” Which I had to acknowledge as the truth.
Anyway, since I’m apparently the designated wasp-whacker, I was ready today when I heard the small thunk that indicated the wasp had left the closet and landed his long, creepy body on the window screen. I grabbed the fly-swatter next to my reading chair. And I swear to God that I am still recovering (several hours later) from the next ten minutes:
First, I swatted the wasp on the window screen. Nothing happened, so I swatted it again, hard. The wasp took off and flew straight at me. I screamed and swung blindly, somehow managing to knock it out of the air. It fell toward the floor, where it immediately fucking disappeared.
Yes. First, like a miniaturized monster, it spent the night in my closet, and now it had somehow turned invisible. But I was not going to share the house with this creature for another day, so I went a little mad. I got a flashlight and peered down the heating vent, convinced it must be there because it had to be somewhere. I moved plants out of their flower pots. I shook out blankets. Finally, I decided the only possible place it could be was on the underside of my chair, and in a fit of bravery (or stupidity), I turned my big, comfy chair on its side. And there, STILL ALIVE, was the wasp, crouching on the front chair leg, waiting to sting my ankle as soon as I let down my guard. Since the fly swatter was clearly not up to the job, I grabbed my Birkenstock and whacked the wasp twice more. It fell to the floor… and started to crawl away.
You guys, this wasp was resilient.
Finally I put the shoe on and stomped the wasp repeatedly until I was certain it was dead. Using about half a roll of toilet paper, I picked it up and dropped it in the toilet. When I flushed, the wasp popped right back up in the water, as though to taunt me. It took two more flushes before I could be certain it wouldn’t return. (Actually, I’m still not certain…)
So yeah, that was exhausting. And I had to do it all alone, like the king’s oldest son going out to slay the dragon in fairy tales. I felt sorry for myself; nobody in the house seemed to take me seriously when I confessed that I was scared because there was a giant wasp hiding in my closet. No matter. The deed is done.
But that’s not the end of the story…
ALSO today, I had to record a webinar. And even though I’ve known for a month that today was a webinar day, I hadn’t planned ahead. I couldn’t record it at the coworking space I usually use because, as Paul reminded me, I’d have to wear a mask, which would make it hard to be heard. And home was not a great choice, either, because a few days ago, I gave away my desk. (I always work in my comfy wasp-chair — who needs a desk?!). Anyway, I’d have to borrow Paul’s desk. I’d also have to borrow his computer because I remembered about an hour before the webinar that my iPad won’t record Zoom calls. Doing the call from home was also a problem because of barking dogs and the potential for sneak wasp attacks.
I was running around the house like my hair was on fire, frantic, moaning, “Oh my God, why do I always do this? I don’t even think of these things and then everything is an emergency. I hate the way I am!”
And Paul stepped in calmly and solved the problem. He suggested that I call the coworking space and reserve a conference room where I could take off my mask. He got me his computer and made sure I remembered how to get into it. He assured me that everything was fine. “Everything isn’t fine,” I said (snarled?). “I leave everything to the last minute. I’m an ASSHOLE.”
He looked at me and shook his head. And then he smiled. “You’re not an asshole,” he said. “This is why I’m here. To help you. We help each other.”
So then I kissed him and told him he had made my day, and I figure killing wasps is a fair trade if I get to have someone to help me whose head doesn’t explode when too many details become overwhelming and unbearable. And that’s my story of the day. Everything worked out fine except that halfway through the webinar, the light in the conference room went out inexplicably and I recorded the second half of it in the dark.*
Anyway, if your honey won’t kill wasps but will help put your hair out when it’s on fire, give him (or her) a kiss and tell them you love them.
Have fun til next time,
PS: Oh my God, it’s not even 6:00 yet. There are so many hours until bedtime!