We spent this weekend playing whack a wasp in the backyard. We'd search out wasp nests by spraying shrubs with water, then run like hell back into the house. So far, we've used up more than 10 cans of wasp killer. The original plan was to have our exterminator just take care of the problem on his quarterly visit, but that man took one look in the backyard and recommended one of the Africanized bee outfits that charges the equivalent of an air fare to paradise. Sorry, I vote for the tropics, so we decided to go commando.
One morning, I woke at the crack of dawn to the sound of the electric hedge trimmer in the backyard. Craig was out there with the device duct taped in the permanently on position to the end of the pool pole taking out a lantana. I guess there really is a purpose for the chain saw on a stick from Costco. Spray. Run like hell. Tear out the nests. And spray some more. And scream at Craig for spraying poison towards me in the pool in his overzealous effort to kill every last wasp he saw.
So this morning I'm dreaming about same time last year when we were on Anna Maria Island in Florida. I'll just fill the blog page with memories of a September trip to the beach. Maybe I'll shut my eyes while I'm floating in the pool and play like I'm in saltwater. (But I don't recall ever being buzzed by a wasp while in the ocean.)