You can't really see it, but it's there. Second window to the right, in the upper left hand corner.
We noticed it about a week ago. It was about the size of a baby's fist at the time. A wasp's nest, attached to the outside of one of our front windows. Since then, it's grown. Now it's about the size of a baseball.
Shudder. Wasps. How I hate them! But then, I hate anything with a stinger (unless it has vodka in it. God bless you, Elaine Stritch). And Corb, he not only hates them, but he's deathly allergic to them. Turns out he stepped on a bee's nest not once but twice when he was a kid and his doctor has repeatedly warned him that if he gets stung again, he could go into anaphylactic shock. Or at least, that's what I've been told.
That meant dealing with the wasp's nest was up to me.
Not that Corb hasn't given me helpful advice. He wants me to dress up in a giant bee costume. "Then go over to the hive and pretend to be a friend. Tell them they have to see the really cool beehive in the backyard. Then when they are out, whack the hive down with a baseball bat! They won't know what to do."
Surprisingly, it actually wasn't the worst piece of advice we received. It's kind of like the deer advice, where people told us to sprinkle all sorts of crazy things down, like human hair and dead deer blood to keep Bambi away.
Jim, who is the boyfriend of Corb's mom, had the worst advice. I was surprised, because he is a bit of an expert on everything. He's about ninety years old, loves to travel. Will eat just about anything. I honestly thought he'd be able to help with this. But, no. His advice:
"Take a putty knife, see, and scrape the nest off quickly. Then make sure you have a big paper bag that it can fall into. Close the bag once the nest is in really quickly. And then, you have to get rid of the bag, so either throw it in the woods or set it on fire."
That's the last time I listen to a world traveler who will eat just about anything. Let's go over things I will absolutely never be doing with a live wasp nest, shall we? First, moving close to it armed only with a putty knife. Then, pissing off a bunch of wasps by detaching their home. Then, dumping said home into a paper bag and trying to close it as they rise up, just a little angry at me. Can you imagine me trying to crinkle that shut? Then, sprinting into the woods to set the bag on fire?
I swear I'd burn the forest down. And, I'm too much of a wimp. I cringe when my avatar gets stung by a bee in Animal Crossing. So I'm not sure what Bizzarro universe this plan of attack is going to happen.
"Just get an exterminator," was Corb's other piece of advice. But no, I don't see the need for that. This is something we should be able to handle on our own.
I spent the whole day thinking about how to kill the bastards. What I needed to do. I carefully considered all the possible pitfalls. Ted against the wasps. Major stingage. Hundreds of insane insects converging down upon me, or finding a way into the kitchen, where they would pull an occupy Wall Street. Missing limbs. Carnage.
In the middle of a movie last night, I made a sudden whimpering noise.
"Are you scared?" Theo asked.
"No," I replied. "Just thinking about the wasps." He looked away.
And then, at ten at night, under cover of darkness, when all the wasps were sound asleep and dreaming of world domination. I sprang into action. I had Corb stand in the kitchen with a lantern, placed right near the wasp nest. Then I ran outside with Theo. Moved a few dozen feet away from the nest, can of wasp poison in hand. Then, I sprayed like crazy. Emptied out the whole bottle. And then, I ran like hell.
End result: the wasp nest is quiet today. I spy a few dead wasps on the bottom of the window sill. Mission accomplished?
Only time will tell.