I am... the waspinator

Red Wasp © 2007 Ruben Dario Cruz

Move over, terminator, I have arrived. I am armed and dangerous. My weapon of choice: a .50-cent, light blue fly swatter, circa 1999. I am awesome.

Okay, so I didn't feel so awesome on Tuesday, Oct. 14, when the first of these feisty red buggers started buzzing in my bedroom. I have a real aversion to that sound—when a big insect "bounces" off the ceiling or wall, then buzzes in distaste at being enclosed in something.

When I heard that unique ping-buzz-ping noise, I froze. There I was, packing for our trip to Jamaica, and an enemy was intruding on my pre-vacation euphoria. Even worse, my husband wasn't home to protect me AND to kill that damn wasp.

Recognizing I had to be in charge of my own destiny, I trudged down the hall to find the swatter. Sure, I could have used a shoe, but I prefer more distance between me and the wasp; plus I needed a little more help in the vertical category.

In the few minutes it took to locate my weapon, the wasp recruited backup. Geesh. Now there was not just one stinging bug flying around my bedroom, there were three... and when I pulled back the curtains of our window, I discovered two more of his creepy little friends. Yes FIVE wasps. Five chances to get stung and for it to REALLY hurt.

I took a deep breath, and I began swatting with reckless abandon. A little tentative at first, my flailing picked up speed as they began to drop like flies (ur, wasps). Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am! Five wasps later, I felt invincible.

Good thing, throughout the day, I easily killed 20 wasps. I'd flatten them and then carry them via their swatter hearse to meet their watery grave in our toilet. Every time I left the bedroom to get a new load of laundry or to grab another item to pack, I'd return to more buzzing. It's almost as if they were cloning themselves as fast as I could kill them.

(I feel it's important to stop here and mention to all the entomologists out there that I realize I am a little less than humane toward bugs, but I just can't help myself. If it could sting me, it dies. Simple as that.)

Anyway, when David got home that day, we searched frantically around the room, from the inside and out, to figure out where these wasps were coming in. David thought maybe a hole he noticed in the brick on the outside might have been the culprit, so he filled it with one of those insulation cans. No dice.

The wasps LOVE our bedroom. They've come back almost every day since the 14th—at least one or so. And I noticed they've also taken up residence in our kitty room (aka: storage room that houses the litter boxes), again on the window.

I don't mind. I just keep the swatter harnessed and ready to rock-and-roll. Those wasps won't hold me down, no sirree! Not even when I noticed one crawling on David's pillow—which is perilously close to my pillow—did I start to falter. Uh-uh. I am AWESOME, hear me roar.

Just one thing—I do not make house calls. This swatter swinger only works on her home turf. You know what, I think I hear some buzzing now...