To Bee, Or Not To Bee

I remember back in the late fall, when, as we were sitting out on the front patio, someone pointed out the “cool looking wasp’s nest” in the tree in my yard. I really can’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before, as it was approximately the size of a Buick, and heavy enough to bend the trunk of the tree to where it was nearly touching the ground.

Well, as my multitudes of readers know, I’m not all that sharp, but by god, I’m smart enough to know not to mess with THAT. I hit the ground running, and I’ve spent the last few months living in a motel, driving a rented car, and wearing newly purchased clothes, as I at least have the intelligence to not go within 500 feet of it, lest I meet the fate of Macaulay Culkin in "My Girl" (only that was funny, because, you know, it was Macaulay Culkin).

Last weekend, though, I decided it was time to take back my life. The Weather Bunny had informed me that a frigid arctic blast was coming through, and I knew I had my window of opportunity. Temperatures in the single digits, on the Kelvin scale, were predicted for about a week, and I knew that those little bastards would be sluggish at best. I did consider the possibility that they had installed the new Trane Heat-A-Hive 4000®, but my binocular-based reconnaissance revealed no newly installed gas lines in the vicinity.

In I went.

I donned my insectafari outfit, worn also in my excursions into the crawl space (spiders are only marginally more tolerable than wasps), which consists of ski bibs and parka, full hat, ski goggles, bandana over my face, and of course, duct tape sealing all gaps and transitions between garments*. The operation itself was uneventful (discounting the mockery of neighbors), involving simply positioning a garbage can beneath the nest (with a trip wire positioned to let the lid fall when it landed), and a 40-foot pole with branch snippers at one end. All went well …

… until the damn global warming kicked in. This was all done on a Saturday, and my garbage isn’t picked up until Friday. During those six days, temperatures skyrocketed, which, while having the positive effect of causing the girls next door to spontaneously engage in a bikini-clad super-soaker fight on their front lawn, also seemingly summoned the stinging satans from their seasonal slumber.

So for the last 2 days, the garbage can has been vibrating violently and emitting a constant earsplitting and angry sounding buzz. I think those things are actually some sort of demon hybrid of wasp, yellowjacket, fire ant, and the mascot for the Salt Lake Buzz**, with whom I once got into a fight over a spilled beer. Man, he was pissed. Needless to say, I’ve got a new set of jammies:

Above: The pink bunny slippers are essential for cold bathroom tile.

Somehow, I’ve got to figure out how to get the can out to the curb tonight. May god have mercy on the soul of the garbage man. Unless, of course, it’s Macaulay Culkin.

* Also good for in-house chicken wrangling, I hear.

** Known as the Stingers from 2001-2005; currently the Salt Lake Bees. I'm very uncomfortable with the theme in general.