Or, more correctly, the cloying bouquet of the "naturally clove-scented" wasp killing spray that now lingers in the air every time I step out my back door. We've all got our battles to fight, I suppose - Desiree's got a war on cheese sticks, Dubya's got his "war on terror" and the brave Heather and Jessica keep up their war on bad taste, thank goodness. Every summer we go through the same song and dance - I see a few big wasps hovering around our outer eaves, go into rabid freak-out mode, and we knock down a few small nests.
This year, it got personal - the little beasties decided to move in and invite all their friends. In the last three days, we've* had to spray the hell out of no fewer than ten nests. The smallest one was as big as the palm of my hand (read: home to probably thirty-plus wasps), none of which bodes well for our future. I'm comtemplating putting a big sign up somewhere outside warning anyone allergic to stings to "Run Away Now! Wasps are Attempting to Commandeer This House!", but haven't been able to locate one yet.
*The expression "we've" here means: Scott, because I am far too afraid of both getting stung and accidentally spraying myself in the face with bug spray, thereby causing my eyeballs and face to do this: Which would be a bad look for me, don't you agree?
As a final preventative measure, he prowls our grounds with a tennis racket, swatting down the survivors with all the rage of Venus Williams with PMS. 'Tis a wonder to behold, let me tell you. Originally, we thought we'd vanquished them with a few squirts at the first two nests we found - but they kept buzzzing around our doorway, taunting us, making me scared to go and get the laundry. I found three new nests yesterday and he found about five more round the back of the house today. I came outside and found him lightly coated in sweat and atomized agent Orange for bugs, swinging his tennis racket and leaping around our driveway like a sprite. I'm fairly confident that for now, we're winning the war...but please remember to bring your Epi-Pens to the house if you stop by.
And now a list, wholly and totally unrelated to the above topic, to satisfy the fierce list-making mania that preys on me day by day. Background on this list: While we were in a meeting the other night, I asked him what he wanted for dinner - he responded with the ever-popular, "What do you want to make?" I thought about that for a minute and wrote down the following.
Things I Would Rather Make Than Dinner (Please Note that Number 7 is a Joke)
- A mess
- A rule that no one can call before 9 am, ever.
- The cats pick up their own poo.
- A cake.
- A baby, so people will finally stop asking me when, whennn, wheeeennnnn I'm going to have one, already.