Who we gonna end up bein'?
As I was examining Bambino's latest attempts to redesign my curtains, they started to buzz violently, shaking here and there as though a lilliputan lawnmower with wings was trapped behind them. I may have limited decorating savvy, but you don't have to be Lynette Jennings to know that curtains don't normally do that. So I was largely unsurprised when I peered behind a panel to see a wasp the size of a golf ball banging drunkenly against the window.
It's kind of funny, what things will set you off and what things won't. For example, the one time I saw a centipede in this apartment, I think the technical term for my reaction was "freaking the hell out." I have never been good with centipedes, but this one was a beast, fully two inches long, fat as a caterpillar, and--perhaps worst of all--ginger colored. It was the "ginger" that did it in. It was being able to label it that clearly that made it vastly more terrifying. My brain doesn't want to be that intimately aware of the details when it comes to centipedes. So when the little ginger monster came on a leisurely stroll out of my bathroom, my rational self and my survival instincts abruptly did a chinese fire drill in my head, the survivalist temporarily seizing control and the rational self dispassionately observing that "seizing control" looked a lot like "jumping up and down, pointing, and shouting in a shrill voice to the cat, 'kill it kill it kill it oh kill it please' while the cat watches with interest." I managed to regain my senses enough to half stomp it, but the uninjured half just dragged its flat backside away, probably giggling evilly. It's gonna come back with a posse some day. I just know it.
Did I really expect Bambino to understand one flipping word I said, and smite the little demon? I really think I did, for a minute there.
So given that I am prone to reacting a bit strongly to centipedes, you'd think I'd get a little jittery around wasps the size of a preying mantis. Funnily enough, I just sighed, said "oh what do you want then," and caught it in a cup and let it go outside. It just looked so pathetic. It would've been one thing if it was zinging around the room, buzzing and droning and flying straight for my face. That makes it a worthy adversary. That's a battle, there. This thing? It was like going into the backyard and finding John Rambo, drunk and weeping, trying to chop down a tree with a hoe. Or finding out the assassin sent to kill you is mentally retarded. This wasp was like that. This was the Inspector Clouseau of wasps. Killing it never even crossed my mind until after I went back outside to get the cup back, which I had to leave on the porch because it was too stupid to figure out how to fly away when I first brought it out.
Not like I really want to invite killerdeathwasps into my home, because I don't, and I'm not. I'm not looking for fights here. It's just that, if a fight comes looking for me, it might as well be worth it. If I'm going to have to muster up whatever needs mustering in order to engage in battle with a dang bug, it'd better be a wolverine with wings, you know?
It's kind of funny, what things will set you off and what things won't. For example, the one time I saw a centipede in this apartment, I think the technical term for my reaction was "freaking the hell out." I have never been good with centipedes, but this one was a beast, fully two inches long, fat as a caterpillar, and--perhaps worst of all--ginger colored. It was the "ginger" that did it in. It was being able to label it that clearly that made it vastly more terrifying. My brain doesn't want to be that intimately aware of the details when it comes to centipedes. So when the little ginger monster came on a leisurely stroll out of my bathroom, my rational self and my survival instincts abruptly did a chinese fire drill in my head, the survivalist temporarily seizing control and the rational self dispassionately observing that "seizing control" looked a lot like "jumping up and down, pointing, and shouting in a shrill voice to the cat, 'kill it kill it kill it oh kill it please' while the cat watches with interest." I managed to regain my senses enough to half stomp it, but the uninjured half just dragged its flat backside away, probably giggling evilly. It's gonna come back with a posse some day. I just know it.
Did I really expect Bambino to understand one flipping word I said, and smite the little demon? I really think I did, for a minute there.
So given that I am prone to reacting a bit strongly to centipedes, you'd think I'd get a little jittery around wasps the size of a preying mantis. Funnily enough, I just sighed, said "oh what do you want then," and caught it in a cup and let it go outside. It just looked so pathetic. It would've been one thing if it was zinging around the room, buzzing and droning and flying straight for my face. That makes it a worthy adversary. That's a battle, there. This thing? It was like going into the backyard and finding John Rambo, drunk and weeping, trying to chop down a tree with a hoe. Or finding out the assassin sent to kill you is mentally retarded. This wasp was like that. This was the Inspector Clouseau of wasps. Killing it never even crossed my mind until after I went back outside to get the cup back, which I had to leave on the porch because it was too stupid to figure out how to fly away when I first brought it out.
Not like I really want to invite killerdeathwasps into my home, because I don't, and I'm not. I'm not looking for fights here. It's just that, if a fight comes looking for me, it might as well be worth it. If I'm going to have to muster up whatever needs mustering in order to engage in battle with a dang bug, it'd better be a wolverine with wings, you know?
posted by Betsi at 7:53 PM
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