Have you ever jumped into the shower to discover you were not alone? Now I know most of you are thinking I must have forgotten Honey wasn't working that day or maybe there was that really quiet plumber but I had the house to myself, at least my human self did.

Who or rather what was in the shower with me? It sure wasn’t a spider. It was something much worse. Now you are thinking, much worse than a spider? Impossible! It was a wasp! See, much much worse than spiders. Wasps are big ugly reddish brown flying spiders with stingers.

Thanks to some prior bathroom remodeling job, there is a big nest of wasps with access to the bathroom. They tend to become active when there is a warm break in the weather (which we just happened to have a couple weeks ago). And because they have a nice protected home that we can't seem to find, they are lounging around on their wasp couches eating high fat wasp munchies and growing to monstrous proportions. We are talking Jumanji wasp HUGE.

So a couple weeks back, I'm stepping into the shower. I notice the monster hanging on the wall and quickly step out. What to do . . . .what to do? I disguise the rising panic in my voice (barely) and ask the monster, "you want to take a shower, huh?" (note this simple question has been recreated without the added obscenities of the original) I grab the shower head and direct the spray at the wasp. When he has been thoroughly washed (unfortunately this involves drowning), I tenderly wrap him in a towel (toilet paper) and throw his body into the toilet for a burial at sea (or since we are located in Johnstown, PA, a Conemaugh River voyage). Then feeling rather proud of myself for slaying the dreaded monster, I get back into the shower, crank up the hot water and spend a couple extra minutes washing the battle tension out of my body.

With the shower adventure neatly behind me, I step out and dry myself on a thick fluffy towel. I slip into my dark purple undies, my dark purple socks, and my bra (white, not purple). I hang my towel and the bath mat and as I turn past the window (located behind the toilet) another monster crawls out from behind the curtain and takes flight. This results in my hastily taking flight right out the bathroom door. The bathroom door slams shut as I throw my semi naked body against it. One should never take monsters of that size lightly.

There I am in the cold hallway looking out the window at the falling snow, panting, "Oh my God! Oh my God," and realizing I'm cut off from my hearing aids and my clothes in the bathroom. Yeah, sure, in my unemployed state it's not imperative that I hear the vacuum running or my fingers clicking on the computer keyboard. I can live with a bit of peace and quiet. What is really bothering me is being cut off from my new five dollar, size 4, purple bell bottom jeans. I was planning on spending the better part of this cold snowy day reliving my youth, specifically the part where I fit into a size four again. Apparently a Christopher Banks size 4 is the equivalent of the size 6 or 8 I fit into in the normal world of fashion. Not only would I fit into a size 4, but I would relive the time in Home Economics when I made the most awesome fuchsia elephant bell jeans. Purple was close enough to my fantasy, and I wasn't going to re-spend the time coordinating a whole other larger sized outfit just because of some big flying bug! Dammit!

That was it. I needed to get mad. I cracked open the bathroom door to assess the situation. The wasp was crawling on my towel. Then it landed on the floor. Then it started crawling for MY NEW JEANS!!!! I had to work fast. Bug on floor equals kill with shoe. I flew down the steps into the front hall and grabbed a boot. I tested it's weight then looked at the bottom. No good. Too much craggy tread would make it difficult to properly squash the bug. I threw the boot down and picked up one of Honey's cloth slip on shoes. Much better. Heavy enough and flat bottoms. I raced back up the steps and cracked open the door. The monster was almost to my NEW JEANS! I flung open the door with weapon in hand and descended upon the monster with a fierce battle cry (for real, not a girl scream). I struck it again and again and again until the bug's wings were folded at odd angles and his head bounced away from his body. Then I did a quick inspection of the rest of the room, threw the body (and head) into the toilet with his buddy from the shower, grabbed my clothes, hearing aids, and shoe, and got the heck out of Dodge.

Honey was going to be so proud of me. Poor thing, the day after the first warm up, he had lifted the curtain to get the new box of toothpaste from the storage area and a wasp fell off the inside of the curtain into his shirt and stung him in three places. Now I could show him that I was capable of saving myself from monsters. I could really show him since the wasp bodies didn't want to flush down the toilet. "Fine," I told myself, "they can just float there as a warning to any other wasps that come exploring in my bathroom. Tell all your friends."

The wasps were quickly forgotten as I vacuumed and washed the floors downstairs. Honey and I had a nice lunch when he came home. I didn't think anymore about them as I shredded lettuce for dinner, dusted furniture, did dishes, and read the newspaper. Round about 2:30pm I grabbed the bathroom cleaner and the vacuum and headed upstairs. I opened the bathroom door dragging the vacuum behind me and froze in place at the horror of three new huge wasps hanging on the wall behind the toilet. That is how I knew they were new. I had the sickening feeling the swimmers had crawled out of the "pool" for a little "pool side" party but a quick glance down (yup, one, two bodies and a head) told me these were extended family in town for the wake. I promptly turned tail and tripped over the vacuum on my way out of the bathroom.

It was time for round two of the great wasp fight. It was time to formulate a new plan. Wall wasps would entail a new weapon. A weapon with reach would be needed. I went for a walk around the house. How about some rolled up newspaper? Nah, not enough reach. Hhmmmm, how about the 3 foot section of 4 by 4 landscape timber we use for crushing pop cans? Nope, there could be wall damage. Then I spied the perfect weapon by the door. A fly swatter. Reach and flexibility. Perfect.

On my way back up to the bathroom, I grabbed the blue fuzzy couch binky and wrapped it around my head and shoulders as both camouflage and protective covering. I carefully opened the bathroom door and peered at the wall. They were still there. I knelt down on the floor outside the bathroom and gently pulled the cord of the vacuum to remove it from the battleground. Then I rearranged the camouflage (fuzzy babushka) and grabbed the fly swatter creeping up on the unsuspecting wasps. I was just thinking, "they'll never know what hit them," as I wound up the weapon for the big smash, then swung and . . . . . . . .missed. MISSED. I missed ALL three.

HUGE tactical blunder! I had mistaken their wall formation as lounging or mourning but they were really plotting a counter attack. They leapt off the wall and flew in formation up around my head, diving here and there as I ducked and twirled and flailed my swatter and hurled obscenities. I was outgunned. They ganged up on me. It was time to retreat. I dove out the door my confidence crushed. I was a failure as a warrior. And, worse yet, I had to PEE!

It was now 2:45pm. I had to pee and wasps in the bathroom were NOT going to stop me. The local gas station was a short drive away. The morning snow had turned into a cold liquid downpour. Now that would stop me. It did stop me, two feet outside the door as I heard the trickle of running water and quickly crossed my legs. I quickly (or as quickly as one can walking WITH crossed legs) got back into the dry house chanting, "think of deserts, think of the surface of the sun, think of any thing that doesn’t have to do with the W word (water or wet)." Oh what a day! Not only could I relive my teenage years in colorful bellbottoms but I could go right back to being a toilet training toddler with a weak bladder.

It was time to call for a rescue. Honey was only 5 minutes away. I made the call and explained the situation. He only laughed for a couple of minutes before he said, "you are kidding, right?" I passed up the opportunity to remind him of the lifetime of suffering we women endure to produce their offspring and told him to "NEVER MIND". I would just spend the next hour in pain having a Free Cell Solitaire tournament while keeping my mind off my problems until he got home.

An hour and a half later he walked in the door. The bag of groceries he dropped on the floor roused me from my semi conscious state and I was able to croak out, "kill them pleeeeeeease." He actually had a look of shock on his face as he asked me, "you WAITED all this time to go to the bathroom?" At this point I could only weakly nod my head yes as I watched him pick up the boot then drop it after inspecting the craggy bottom. He picked up a piece of newspaper and started to roll it until I told him I had already prepared the weapon.

We both ran up the stairs where Honey briefly admired my choice of weapon. The graceful lines of its handle. The superb craftsmanship. He hefted its weight and took a few practice swings like an expert swordsman. He entered the arena. His glistening muscles tensed as he raised the weapon then quickly struck the enemy with a back hand thrust. Barely pausing, he quickly dispatched another intruder with a forehand smash then performed an expert pirouette and killed the last one with an amazing behind the back hit. I sighed, "my hero," as I ran to the commode with my pants around my ankles.

Ok, I may have been slightly delirious for that last part, but that’s the way I remember it.

Over the past few weeks I’ve had the opportunity to hone my wasp killing skills. I’ve added some new weapons to my arsenal. Then a couple days ago I had the chance to prove my mettle. Four wasps! Four!!! The first was outside the bathroom on the cream colored hall wall doing a poor job of blending in with his surroundings. SMACK! A quick wrap in a burial shroud (TP) and into the pool he went. The other three were cowering in fear under the curtain in the corner of the window. I scanned the array of available weapons (fumbled through the stuff on the back of the toilet) and carefully chose the bottle of hair spray (it was the only thing left after fumbling everything else onto the floor). Then I executed a most tricky maneuver, spraying the enemy with my left hand while swatting the now sticky enemy with my weapon wielding right hand. In just a matter of minutes the bathroom was cleared of wasps. I was a fearsome wasp warrior once again.

I was so proud of my feat that later I stood looking into the toilet with the master wasp slayer. Honey said, "Four wasps! That is very impressive, grasshopper." I might have shed a tear at the praise, it was such a beautiful moment. Then he asked what techniques I employed. "Hair spray. Then swatting," I answered lifting my eyebrows in a gesture for acceptance. "Ahh," he shook his head in acknowledgment, "I find they don’t like Lysol either."

tags: weapons  wasps  spider  bathroom  fighting  fantasy  humor  

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