askyermom

I suppose we all are moving through phases of living in Corona World. For me, I am becoming impatient with things that used to seem edgy in a fun way. For instance, my previously preferred brand of eye make-up named its colors things like black hole and corruption. I even thought it was funny when we had a sauce shortage and mixed pesto with mayo and dubbed it Pestilence. Now, Fish Sandwich with Pestilence has lost its appeal.

It’s like tuning to a darker view takes all the fun out of irony. Then you begin to wonder if irony was really ever any fun to begin with. Comedians are struggling, and people who should keep a wide distance from comedy are gamely failing at it. Ha ha ha. No.

We are vigilant for disaster now, when really we could have been more vigilant last week if we were less lazy. There is exactly the same likelihood that you will set your house on fire, unless you quit smoking this week, in which case, good for you! Did you start smoking this week? I’d love to hear your rationale for that one before you set your house on fire.

My particular brain problem became evident a few days ago. I was toweling my hair, upside down, imagining I was in a spa and wiggling my toes in a decadent bath mat. If you have ever done this, you will understand the way sound is altered by this exercise. Music stutters and mechanical noises fade in an out as you pat your ears. Your toes have nothing to do with this by the way, it’s just a little more tactile input to confuse your ears.

I heard a sound that my dark brain immediately identified as HOMICIDE HORNET! A rhythmic whirring very nearby was not necessarily an assassin wasp, but that was exactly where my mind leapt. On the heels of that idea, I thought, no, it’s a weed wacker outside. Gnarrr gnarr-gnarrrr. I resumed my ablutions thinking what a ninny I was.

It was a wasp, after all. Not as large as a Murder Hornet, but large enough to worry me and cause murder thoughts. I fled, slammed the door, and stuffed my towel under the door to make sure the bathroom wasp didn’t become the bedroom wasp.

Not every one is this reactionary about insects, I’m told. Some have good reason, like an allergy. I have no excuse, but I do have a cluster of vivid memories of summer nights spent wide awake listening to mosquitoes discuss which part of my skin they wanted to bite next.

We have no bug spray, I learned, and my pestilence sauce was used up, too, even though it would not have been useful in this situation. I searched for homemade wasp spray and found one recipe that called for a huge amount of sugar to make a trap, but as a spray it would probably just get syrup all over the walls and attract a whole new neighborhood of bugs. Searching a bit more, I was disheartened to learn that wasps live about 12 days, and with my luck this was a baby who would own my bathroom for over a week.

Because I dislike killing bugs slightly more than I dislike bugs themselves, we do have a contraption to trap them. It’s good for everything but the largest, fastest spiders and wasps. I have only ever succeeded in catching one indolent beetle with it, however.

I decided to hit my Not-Murder Wasp with a blast of the only spray cleaner I have on hand and hope for the best, however the spray was nowhere to be found. It seemed to me that a spray of hydrogen peroxide would only make the wasp a little more murdery, so I kept looking. Then I remembered. The lavender all purpose spray junk was, of course, in the wasp’s bathroom.

This is when I started drinking it over. Liquid courage isn’t real, I reasoned, but I also knew that a little vodka would definitely improve my assessment of my chances of fetching the spray bottle without dying.

I crept in after dark, convinced that baby murder wasp would be done washing its baby murder face and sleeping upside down, like a predictable villain. I didn’t see it anywhere.

Perhaps, I thought, I could call someone. The exterminator had been outside recently and maybe an emergency wasp mitigation would not be the weirdest thing to ask for. It would be very embarrassing, but I am not above begging for unnecessary help. I’m still the mom who wails in the kitchen, “Tall person!” rather than using a step ladder.

That night, I dreamt of flying waffles.

I am fine, by the way.

One more check before calling in the insect cavalry, and I discovered that the wasp was gone. I began to doubt myself. I have never hallucinated insects before, well, not the sight of insects, anyway. I have imagined I heard them with no visual confirmation, so I’m going to assume that doesn’t qualify as an hallucination.

By the time I convinced myself that the entire episode was some hysterical manifested phobia early warning whatever, I found the carcass of the presumably 13-day-old wasp. I wasn’t sorry for it, but I was glad that I hadn’t had to catch it or kill it. It was out of my bug hands.

So, this is a very long way of saying, maybe trust yourself a little more. Don’t panic. If it is a murder hornet, it’s still not likely to murder you. This week.

Love,
yermom

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