I knew the wasps were there. Somewhere. Just a week ago, the little dive-bombers had hit me like a torpedo armed with a roofing nail just behind my armpit while I was mowing the lawn. Being raised in South Louisiana, we know all manners of treating a wasp sting: toothpaste, tobacco, meat tenderizer, mustard. The list is endless. (If you want the doctor-approved versions, here's what WebMD says.)

 

The problem with MY wasps was locating them to destroy them. Were they in the tree? In the fencing? Or had they made their way into the innocent-looking birdhouse that is in bad need of a paint job?

 

 

This week, as I set out to do a task I actually ENJOY, I put my earbuds in and started mowing the lawn, wary of the creatures that may be waiting to strike.

Sure enough, I hit the pole upon which the birdhouse is precariously perched and out they flew. And I took off like a shot, leaving my beloved mower standing there, thankful it could feel no pain.

As the angry parasites (did you know wasps are actually considered parasites?) calmed down after being disturbed, I resumed my mowing and completed my task.

I actually had a good reason for kicking that pole to get the video you see here (other than the fact that I wanted to give them a big "nana-nana-booboo").

 

 

My dear husband had gone in search of the offensive creatures to kill them last week and couldn't locate their lair. I was determined to give him proof that the birdhouse was their chosen home.

I texted him the video and also posted it to Facebook. I got several comments. None of them was quite as sweet to read as the one from my dearly beloved that read: "All dead."

 

Tracy-1 Wasps-0