A somewhat embarrassing (for me) but potentially amusing (for you) story:
I do not like to think of myself as a girly-girl, but there are two of God's creatures that I absolutely detest: centipedes/millipedes (or anything with a gazillion legs), and wasps. Actually, I really only detest the first group; I don't hate wasps, but I'd rather not have them anywhere near, either. They build nests on my front porch and on my back deck, and I'm not entirely sure what it would take for one of them to sting one of my children or myself, and I'd rather not find out.
So it was with much chagrin that I discovered a wasp on my kitchen counter as I was cleaning up on Monday night. Now, you'll remember from this post that I do not normally clean my own kitchen, and it was only because Isaac was on a trip that it was me who discovered the wasp. Sad for me. But, it was really just hanging out in one spot on the counter, and I thought to myself, You can do this. Just get the flyswatter. You can do this.
The flyswatter, unfortunately, was not in its usual location, nor any of the other semi-logical places I looked. And by this point, the wasp had climbed from the counter onto the blade of my food processor, which was sitting on the counter with little bits of apple stuck to it from having made these oatmeal-carrot-apple breakfast bars (two thumbs up, by the way). I knew that, for my own peace of mind, I was going to have to smack the wasp pretty hard in order to be sure I killed it and didn't just anger it, and the thought of smacking a food processor blade hard enough to send it flying, potentially, did not do much to alleviate my fears.
I swallowed my pride and sent a text to Isaac: "Where is the wasp spray?" Never mind that you're not supposed to use it indoors. Never mind that, being pregnant, I ought not use it anywhere, anyway. Things were getting desperate.
Long story (not very) short, he echoed my sensible side and said I shouldn't use the spray, and when I admitted I couldn't find the flyswatter, he called. Never mind that he was supposed to be teaching a Bible study at the moment. His wife was in crisis. ("I'm not in crisis!" I protested. "I can do this!")
The proposed solution: throw a bowl over the wasp (and the blade). Slide the bowl off the counter onto a cookie sheet. Take the whole shebang outside, let the wasp go. Problem solved.
Sort of. I did, in fact, manage to get a bowl over the wasp (still on the blade). And then I ran out of courage. What if he flew out while I was sliding the bowl onto the cookie sheet? Wouldn't he be mad, for having been trapped under a bowl? And isn't an angry wasp the very thing I fear in the first place? I couldn't do it.
A day passed. The wasp lived on.
Another day passed. The wasp lived on. I had people over for Bible study on Wednesday night, so I figured I'd swallow the rest of my pride and ask one of the men to take care of it for me. But I forgot.
Another day passed. The wasp lived on. The little boys and I were headed out of town to visit a friend, and I figured surely, surely, it would be dead when we got home on Saturday.
THE STUPID THING IS STILL ALIVE. It's been living under a bowl for five full days now, with apparently enough air and enough food stuck to the food processor blade to live forever. Fortunately, Isaac will be home this evening, and I assume that once he stops laughing at me so hard that he can't breathe, he'll take care of it.
My hero.
I do not like to think of myself as a girly-girl, but there are two of God's creatures that I absolutely detest: centipedes/millipedes (or anything with a gazillion legs), and wasps. Actually, I really only detest the first group; I don't hate wasps, but I'd rather not have them anywhere near, either. They build nests on my front porch and on my back deck, and I'm not entirely sure what it would take for one of them to sting one of my children or myself, and I'd rather not find out.
So it was with much chagrin that I discovered a wasp on my kitchen counter as I was cleaning up on Monday night. Now, you'll remember from this post that I do not normally clean my own kitchen, and it was only because Isaac was on a trip that it was me who discovered the wasp. Sad for me. But, it was really just hanging out in one spot on the counter, and I thought to myself, You can do this. Just get the flyswatter. You can do this.
The flyswatter, unfortunately, was not in its usual location, nor any of the other semi-logical places I looked. And by this point, the wasp had climbed from the counter onto the blade of my food processor, which was sitting on the counter with little bits of apple stuck to it from having made these oatmeal-carrot-apple breakfast bars (two thumbs up, by the way). I knew that, for my own peace of mind, I was going to have to smack the wasp pretty hard in order to be sure I killed it and didn't just anger it, and the thought of smacking a food processor blade hard enough to send it flying, potentially, did not do much to alleviate my fears.
I swallowed my pride and sent a text to Isaac: "Where is the wasp spray?" Never mind that you're not supposed to use it indoors. Never mind that, being pregnant, I ought not use it anywhere, anyway. Things were getting desperate.
Long story (not very) short, he echoed my sensible side and said I shouldn't use the spray, and when I admitted I couldn't find the flyswatter, he called. Never mind that he was supposed to be teaching a Bible study at the moment. His wife was in crisis. ("I'm not in crisis!" I protested. "I can do this!")
The proposed solution: throw a bowl over the wasp (and the blade). Slide the bowl off the counter onto a cookie sheet. Take the whole shebang outside, let the wasp go. Problem solved.
Sort of. I did, in fact, manage to get a bowl over the wasp (still on the blade). And then I ran out of courage. What if he flew out while I was sliding the bowl onto the cookie sheet? Wouldn't he be mad, for having been trapped under a bowl? And isn't an angry wasp the very thing I fear in the first place? I couldn't do it.
Well, no matter, I thought. It can't live forever under there. I'll take care of it when it dies.
A day passed. The wasp lived on.
Another day passed. The wasp lived on. I had people over for Bible study on Wednesday night, so I figured I'd swallow the rest of my pride and ask one of the men to take care of it for me. But I forgot.
Another day passed. The wasp lived on. The little boys and I were headed out of town to visit a friend, and I figured surely, surely, it would be dead when we got home on Saturday.
THE STUPID THING IS STILL ALIVE. It's been living under a bowl for five full days now, with apparently enough air and enough food stuck to the food processor blade to live forever. Fortunately, Isaac will be home this evening, and I assume that once he stops laughing at me so hard that he can't breathe, he'll take care of it.
My hero.
My new pet. For a few more hours, anyway.
I had to remove a bat from a bathroom in our pre-renovated cabin once and did it just the way Isaac suggested....except my tools were a vase and a piece of cardboard. Worked great. But hey...your solution worked as well; it was just a bit slower :-)
ReplyDeleteOkay, Jodee, that's way worse. With an actual flying animal (bigger than an insect, I mean), I probably would have called in back-up!
ReplyDelete