My mother has been remodeling the house for the past several years now (no kidding; I referenced this in my blog back in 2010 and it had been going on for some time by then) and recently got around to the living room. She wished to get rid of her couch. It is a fine couch, kind of old but sturdy and in good shape, made of velveteen, but it was too big and heavy for her purposes. (It’s a hide-a-bed.) Michael’s living room furniture is all junk, so I asked Mom for permission to give the couch to him. She said okay.
So today Michael and I picked up the couch and took it to his house. It took all afternoon: we had to drive from Fort Wayne to Ohio, pick up the couch, put it on Mom’s truck, take it back to his house, install it inside, drive back to Ohio, drop off Mom’s truck, pick up Michael’s car, and drive back to Fort Wayne. The couch turned out to be about two inches wider than the front door frame no matter how it was turned, so we (Michael, me and his roommates — collectively known as “the boys”) got it in through the (unused) sliding glass door, which required moving all the furniture and so on that was in front of that door. This took a long time and involved much swearing, grunting, and nasty arguing, particularly on the boys’ part.
But that wasn’t what I wanted to write about.
On the way back to Ohio we stopped at a gas station. I got out of the truck, opened up the gas compartment preparing to fill, shouted “Holy Jesus!” and took several steps backward, eventually bumping into a pillar.
“What now, Meaghan?” Michael asked wearily.
“Gas — crap — can’t — wasps — two of them,” I hyperventilated.
He got out of the car and looked and saw what I saw: a very tiny wasps’ nest, about an inch and a half across and three-quarters of an inch in depth, with two wasps buzzing around it. I’d never seen anything like it and wish, now, that I’d taken a picture with my phone.
I have a terrible phobia of stinging insects of all kinds, although I’ve never been stung. (In fact, I think if I was my phobia might go away, once I realized being stung is not unbearable.) “I’m not sticking my hand in there!” I said, and promptly legged it across the parking lot, leaving Michael to deal with the problem.
This he did in boyfriendly fashion, using the gas station’s windshield wiper thingy to knock the nest out of the gas compartment. Only then did I consent to go back there and fill the gas tank.
En route again, we speculated that the wasps were a gay couple staying in a nice little apartment. I hope they found another place to live. I have nothing against wasps personally, but I don’t want them anywhere near me and certainly not in any vehicles I’m driving.
I told Mom and she promised to spray.
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