Illustration by Jan Igoe
If I had political clout, my first order of business would be banning every wasp from the universe, or at least Fed Ex-ing them to Mars.
But maybe we should start with the spider.
It was a glorious, sunny morning when I stumbled out my back door directly into a monstrous web, built on the night shift by a presumably 12-pound arachnid racking up overtime.
The magical thing about spiderwebs that makes you start smacking yourself and leaping around isn’t so much the sticky threads that relentlessly adhere themselves to your skin. It’s wondering if the magnificent killing machine that knit this booby trap is stuck in your hair.
I located the offending spider and was ready to smash it with a shovel when my favorite save-the-Earth neighbor popped over. “You don’t want to do that, sweetie,” Joni said. “She’s a golden orb, just protecting you from the wasps. Isn’t she beautiful?”
That wasn’t the first word that came to mind, but … Wait. Did she say wasps?
“You do see the wasp nest on the top of the door frame, right?” Joni asked.
Sure enough, there it was. I’d already been stung three times—despite my worthless, eight-legged bodyguard—but couldn’t locate their rebel base until now.
“Don’t use pesticide on them,” Joni said. “Baby orangutans will suffer, and you’ll destroy the coral reefs. Promise me!”
Reluctantly, I agreed to find a compassionate, poison-free method to murder them. Unfortunately, my shovel is surprisingly ineffective against wasps. When you start waving large metal objects within 15 feet of a nest, their spotters come out stinging. This time, they got my legs and arms. I’m sure the one that got stuck in my shirt is still laughing its thorax off.
Proposing a truce, I pledged to ease the door closed slowly, so nobody would get their wings bent out of shape. If they let me pass unharmed, there would be no poison spray. Cross my heart. For a few days, nobody stung me. But the ceasefire didn’t last.
Swollen, itchy and perterbed, I considered melting them with my heat gun, but the internet says that’s more likely to set your house on fire than evict wasps.
On my next Benadryl break, I consulted Google and came across entomologist Justin O. Schmidt, who has been stung by 83 insects on purpose. In his book Sting of the Wild, he ranks the pain their stings inflict on a scale of 1 to 4 and describes the sensation like fine wine. (Schmidt admits he was not first to be picked for kickball as a child, so most of his friends had six legs.)
He describes the sting of a “little wasp” as “sharp meets spice. A slender cactus spine brushed a buffalo wing” before impaling your flesh. That pain is no big deal (he says).
If you prefer a sting that’s “rich” and “hearty, but slightly crunchy … Like getting your hand mashed in a revolving door,” look for a bald-faced hornet.
Still higher on the pain index, the tarantula hawk’s sting is “blindingly fierce and shockingly electric.” This wasp’s venom is designed to paralyze the aforementioned spider, so its larva can dine on their host at their leisure. The sting is so intense, all you can do is lie down and scream, Schmidt says.
I don’t know which wasps are squatting at my house, but his book convinced me to call pest control and let the pros handle the eviction. If that golden orb doesn’t get off her duff, she’s going, too. (Don’t tell Joni.)
Jan A. Igoe may be selling her home and its wildlife at a substantial discount. She’ll throw in free Benadryl with purchase. Share your wasp worries at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.