The Wasp Battle

Like pretty much everyone else in Southern California, wasps/hornets/yellowjackets are always a bit of a nuisance, if not outright dangerous problem. While growing up, my parents had a vast backyard (by suburban standards at least), which was home to a good amount of fruit trees that required regular servicing. Being within the male age range of 8 to 16 at the time, my chores mostly consisted of taking care of said arboretum, so I've had quite the dealings with my fair share of entomology in my day. The first time I was attacked by hornets was by the big lemon tree we had, when I was probably 11. The result of which had me running and screaming for dear life, only to be filled with welts for several days, and a fear of those black and yellow bastards that would last for half a decade, if not longer. Fortunately by the time I got my next wasp sting I was a bit older, and my reaction was limited to saying "OW! Well, that sucked." However the next day I had a red lump on my forearm 2 inches wide by at least 6 inches across, with a decent height of probably 1/2 an inch. Thankfully, other than itching uncontrollably for a full day, no further effects were noticed. However, as if anyone didn't already know, wasps are not to be trifled with if at all possible.

So last night the woman and I returned from a typical evening stroll, and upon entering the front door she pointed up at something odd. Since our porchlight recently died I wasn't immediately sure what it was, but I had good idea. The wasps that had lived in our eaves, until their recent displacement from due to condo painting, were now attempting new residence on the trim of our front door. Normally if the stinging ones are far enough away from direct openings to my domicile, I leave them alone. Yet this aggression would not stand, man, so I gave them a warning in the form of a direct blast of 90psi thumbsqueeze hosing. Since we have been invaded by far too many ants recently as well, I have gone from my strict policy of saving every critter possible (I have a dedicated Spider Cup on the bookshelf by our front door), to outright murder without hesitation. I do not enjoy this, but have been left with little choice as of late.

So, this morning was to be the final Front Door Painting, which would complete the cycle of displacing the old off-brown colour of our aging wood trim with the flourishing off-grey scheme that now supplants it. This required the front door to be open for several hours, starting around 10am. This does not bode well I mused, but did not worry too much as I had checked the wasping region several times during the preceding time before Vast Opening, only to notice that the buggers removed last night were nowhere in sight. Once the painter had completed his task and alerted me to the fact that the door should remain open for next 2 hours, I was sitting upon my perch at the computer becoming increasingly frustrated with attemping to find employment, as per usual. An odd feeling descended upon my person, and I slowly got up to inspect the living room. Three miniature B-52 bombers had taken up residence on our 14 foot tall ceiling. TO ARMS!!!



15 minutes later, the wasps were dead and gone. I mourn their passage, but do not regret their absence. I do not think the Swiffer I started off with survived the skirmish without a few scars, but the only other casualty came in the form of a few new bends in the front miniblinds, and perhaps a small bleach stain on the living room rug. I may have won the battle, but what of the greater war still at hand?

Anyhow, fuck the paint. I shut the front door an hour early.