This summer I´m having a problem with wasps. No, not the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant variety, like Todd Akin, but the insect variety.
(Come to think of it, the Republican´s ”knowledge” of the membranes and crevices of the female anatomy might actually render him part of the venomous hymenoptera insect class and as such, eminently exterminable).
Anyway, talking of crevices, some roof-height ones on our terraza have been colonised by these black-and-yellow-striped waspie beasties.
At first I believed in live and let live. But after their numbers climbed to a few dozen and I was stung sitting indoors on my own sofa, I decided to fight fire with fire, or more accurately, poison with poison. (That sting stung! I felt a painful whiplash of venom shoot through my arm and down my side. I´m not allergic to wasp stings, but I don´t know if Malassie is. So I decided to act).
My first actions were completely useless. I puffed a bit of fly spray around but the wasps just dive-bombed away, blowing loud raspberries at me as I choked on the vile chemicals. I threw a bit of ant powder around but ended up walking it through the house myself. More mopping.
Spanish hubby, referring to las avispas as ”ellas”, which I thought was a bit sexist, said the cracks had to be filled in at night when they were all in sleeping in their wee beds. Well, I wouldn´t have it. Being “emparedadas” or shut up behind walls, is positively medieval and the miniscule skeletons would remain in our family cupboard, as it were, for millenia.
Meanwhile we can´t sit outside. Hubby has become the night time laughing stock of the barrio by setting up his laptop at the dingy end of the terraza on an old, butcher-block table I keep fusty plants on before consigning them to the bin.
No wasps there – obviously they have their cool value. Unlike Hubby.
So, finally, and since I´m the family decision-maker in all things, I say to Hubby, “Do It”. And he does. While the waspies are sleeping (or on Waspbook and Buzzer or getting a degree on La Waspidad a Distancia) he fills in the front and back entrances to their chalet with plaster.
That night I was in mourning. Hemingway was here, death was all around and the bells tolled for all of us. Next morning, the place was all abuzz again. The bastards had tunnelled out and were holding a victory Buzz-In around our heads!
So, more plaster …. and more tunnelling! I decided to get some summer exercise in with some step aerobics on a small ladder and a bit of zumba with some Hipercor junk mail. Up, two, three, ¡zumba!, down (quickly) and jump inside from the Gathering Swarm.
I got quite good at this, not quite Seven in One Blow – more like One in Seventy Blows – but I gifted free eolic energy to the barrio during some very hot weather.
Unfortunately, I broke my favourite planter, battered my boj to bits and almost knocked Malassie unconscious. My pal Ana suggested I use smoke. (Just what I need, to burn the house down).
No. It was time for the big guns. Silicone. I can´t get it off my shower-base so wee beasties can´t tunnel their way through it. And yes, it worked.
For about five minutes. The little bitches set up a petition on Avispaaz and a bunch of wingdignadas showed up, okupied another crack and the whole thing started again.
No wonder Spaniards use the word avispado to mean smart!
Meanwhile, I need bigger guns.
Maybe I should join the Republican Party.