Thursday, April 26, 2018

The Horror Continues

No, not terrifying at all. Approachable, really. Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash

Morning Readers,

Ok, so I really didn't want to drag this nonsense into another week, but here we are.

Over the last few days, I mentally tallied everything I wanted to write about: food, sleep, how, if I had a million dollars, I'd buy SO many donuts. And, just as I thought I'd picked something mildly entertaining, I was pulled from my reverie by a buzzing sound next to my window.

No.

The reason that word's struck so dramatically by itself is because that particular buzzing sound triggered memories of a gorgeous, sunny morning last summer, when I jogged downstairs, grabbed a handful of Lucky Charms (now with unicorns!), grabbed a cup of coffee, and made my way to the living room.

I sat down.

Now, I've experienced significant amounts of pain in my years- childbirth, surgery, ripping a band aid off too fast- but the fire that rocketed through my butt that Better Homes and Gardens day was, shall we say, not pleasant. I handled it ok though.

"Mother ******." I threw the remote and pictures on the mantel went down like milk bottles at a country fair.

I used my cool problem solving skills and hours of watching Sherlock to deduce my predicament.

"What?!"

"What iiiiiis it?"

"Sweet, Flavor Flav's clock, what is going on?"

Frantically clutching my spasming back, I searched the couch. Finding nothing, I jumped to the next logical conclusion.

"Kids? Kids, get me the laptop. This is how those strokes start. Ugh, I need to check WebMD and see if I should call 911 or risk weaving us all down the highway with an eighty-percent chance of making it there. Find your helmets."

With no one particularly interested in my impending death, I limped up the stairs, flipped up my shirt, and examined the damage in the mirror. There, barely visible, were two, small holes in my hip.

It meant more walking, but I half-slid, half-stumbled back down the stairs and combed the carpet. A waning buzz floated from a far corner and pulled my eyes to a giant wasp in its death throws.

"Right. It's the broom for you."

There haven't been many times in my life when I've resembled Babe Ruth (only three by my count), but, as I followed through with the force of all bristles, there was something majestic about it.

Fast forward to what recent developments mean to heroine of the story...

"The house isn't exactly air tight, babe. There's probably a nest somewhere."

I sat staring dumbly at Husband, while my arms made wing motions. "But that's the third one I've found in three days. In the house. Where we live!"

He nodded, gave me a look somewhere between sympathy and amusement, and continued searching for a more sane wife on his phone.

Glancing up at the picture window a story above me, I shuddered as a shiny, black body banged into the glass, over and over. It's anger was palpable, and there wasn't a doubt in my mind that, once enough rage had built, he'd exit his perch and head for my butt.

I shook my head. "Well, I'm not going to stand for it. They're invading our house. What is it with insects and our life? Was this house built on some sort of ancient bug burial ground and now we're paying for it? Tell me that, Carol Anne."

*This spot reserved for exhausted sighs*

So, while the silverfish, firebrat, and carpet beetle population seam to be tapering off, the wasps have infiltrated somehow.

I can't find a nest.

I've looked everywhere.

If I die and this becomes my unfinished business, I'm going to be really unhappy. In the meantime, I'll be wondering how wasps are wiggling through my window frames. Because that's fun.

I'm gonna need more unicorn marshmallows in my Lucky Charms.

Until Next Time, Readers!



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