As you will recall, my first day of working on the house was made considerably less joyous by a few spiteful wasps.
This subject wouldn’t have made it into a separate post, but this whole ordeal didn’t stop there. The wasps at my house must have sipped some sort of mutant, evil-aggression-inducing nectar. I have not gotten stung again, but I have had several close calls.
My husband tells me that I usually have no cause for alarm. I can’t help but closely observe my surroundings, searching for these lurking villains.
I’m convinced that others are somehow blind to the way that these creatures permeate the environment. I must have some sort of strange power that allows me to see all of them.
Maybe it’s called wasp-o-vision.
Maybe the wasps are from some other dimension.
Maybe, I’m seeing things.
More likely: I have Spheksophobia.
No matter what the case may be, I see them. I always see them. My heart races and I feel weak, at the sight of a nest alone.
My problems with the wasps that are specific to my house began when my mother-in-law and I started cleaning up the area beside the garage.
Unbeknownst to us, this spot was harboring masses of wasps and the like. I started out helping her rake some of the leaves behind that trash can.
We were cleaning the area up and enjoying the weather, unaware of the danger lying in wait beneath the leaves and between the creeping tentacles of the vine.
I was thinking about the refreshing nature of the light rain that had started, and contentedly raking leaves. Out of nowhere, things went horribly wrong.
A stabbing pain burst through my knee, like a hypodermic needle had been driven into it. As I lunged away from the leaves and ran into the garage seeking sanctuary, another needle speared through my ankle.
I’ve been stung before. These stings were on a different level. There was malice involved.
The site of the sting is still visible after almost three weeks. I can only assume it’s because of the general ill-will that all wasps bear towards me.
Please believe me; I have tried to rid myself of these ridiculous thoughts and reactions. I’m beginning to believe that my response isn’t quite as exaggerated as I used to think. There IS a conspiracy against me. I can almost hear them whispering about my demise.
I have combed every crevice around the outside of the house for these predators. I continue to find large nests to spray. Even with the solace of the death-to-wasps jet sprayer, I’m like a scared child checking the closet for the bogey man.
I know what you’re going to say, “you need to realize that you’re the scary one in the equation, especially with the large can of air-propelled poison.”
Let me emphasize, I have a genuine phobia. Logic doesn’t enter into my mind when faced with my fear. My mind becomes irrational. I may even have imagined while spraying nests that I was in a nail-biting thriller, and a wasp was going to torpedo into me out of nowhere, stinging the word surprise into my flesh.
And while we’re on the subject of spraying nests, why do the people who make bug spray have to perpetuate my fears of said bugs by plastering pictures of giant, malevolent looking bugs on their cans?
Case in point:
Anyway, I will keep you apprised of any new developments in the Becca vs. The Wasps saga. Will there ever be peace between me and my enemy wasps? Do you know any good mediators?