I was mowing the lawn one fine autumn day when I was nailed by a wasp – near my jugular, not once – it went all jackhammer-ass on me. Having exhausted every English combination of the f-bomb I could muster, I used the few REALLY naughty Norwegian f-bomb combinations I knew, then I kicked the lawn-mower. The mangled toe and dangling spark plug wire took my mind off the neck welts long enough to see there was a budding wasp nest on the fence.

Having no wasp spray at the time, I warned my husband not to go to that section of the fence unless he was:

First…armed

Second…padded

Third…stupid.

Well, being the man of the house, he decided he could take care of the problem. He grabbed a golf club (a 9-iron, I believe), thus simultaneously fulfilling the first and third requirements. I can only assume that the third requirement prevented him from assuring he had also met the second requirement.

I’m not gonna miss this. I have never seen a wasp problem solved with a golf club.

He took a mighty swing at the nest, promptly diverting five wasps from building a nest to using him for target practice. He’s whipping that 9-iron furiously, missing the wasps, but doing some very interesting things to the fence, as well as giving himself a couple good whacks when the defending wasps got through. He’s swinging the club, doing The Pee-pee dance (and giving me a damned good idea for an exercise video), and hollering at me, “DO something! OW…dammit…DO SOMETHING!…OOOOOOOW!”

Well, I WAS doing something…laughing myself dizzy.

“So…what do you want ME to do?”

“I dunno…grab a club and help me OUT here!”

Mmmmm Kayyyy…right. Oh wait! I have a better idea! I grab the hose, attach the jet nozzle, open the spigot all the way (and fulfilling the first and third requirements myself and securing my own ticket on the Stupid Train), and take aim at the nest.

“What the HELL are you doing, Lori?! Oh, no. Don’t! No, no, no ,no! OOOOW!” yells my husband the moment his face intercepts the stream of water.

Through some kind of wasp telepathy, five little heads swivel in unison in my direction, and lock on target. It’s not about saving HIM at this point… and now I’m bruising myself with the power jet. HE saw the opening, though, and bravely took it, positioning himself between me and the hose and the wasps. We made our retreat for the garage, with hose, 9-iron, The Pee-pee Dance, and wasps each playing its part in a bizarre, disjointed ballet. My last sight as I dropped the whipping hose and slammed the door shut was of five unharmed wasps flying home.