I need to preface this story. If you know me, or have read this blog (HA!), you may already have an idea of who I am. However, for those who have no clue besides the fact that I exaggerate my life to make me seem more amusing/ridiculous/smart, I will give you a quick synopsis of who I am.
I am not a girly-girl. I own very few dresses, having only just purchased a few this past month in attempts to be more feminine (which I can barely spell without double checking because the word isn't even in my vocabulary). I don't enjoy guns, but will mercilessly use them while playing video games. I will drink tequila over pretty much anything. I don't enjoy dirt, but it is necessary when gardening or getting wood for a fire. I like playing with animals. And I tolerate pain to a degree of getting three tattoos, still wanting more.
So, as you read this story, know it is not typical of my style.
My friend Traci and I were coming back to my house after a day of walking around the Minnesota Institute of Art and catching up on life at a cafe nearby. To condense this part of the story, we had to go out of our way to pick up my car from another location before getting to my house by twenty minutes, and we were already debating how we would drive/park for that night in St.Paul for Northern Spark. While we wanted to do our best to stay as long as we could, our other friends weren't as keen on staying past the 11pm mark (married folk, amiright?!).
After one of my friends gave me some good advice on the parking situation, I decided that maybe it'd be best if we left early and ate dinner down there. We'd avoid the traffic, the parking issues, and we could relax easier knowing everything was set. At this point, it was around 5:30pm, and we'd have to move fast because we still didn't know what traffic would be like.
I was also really hungry because I'd only eaten a bowl of cereal and a blueberry muffin that day.
In that, we also wanted to be prepared for whatever weather would be tossed at us while spending 6:30pm to 5:30am in St. Paul. Not only was appropriate clothing needed, but blankets, jackets, an umbrella that I found in the back of the entry hall closet that could cover Target Field... I made a quick checklist to help cease any possible misery we could encounter due to weather so we could go on enjoying the events for all they were worth.
I promised my friend I'd be quick to change, then raced upstairs to take care of amenities. While washing my hands, a buzzing noise, proceeded by a thunk of something landing on my window screen, was what I heard before my sight caught what was in my bathroom: a wasp.
Several things flew through my head at that moment, but the first was, "What the fuck is a wasp doing in my bathroom? How the fuck could a wasp get in here when there are no holes in my window screens and I barely have my room wide open anyway? Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Then, a bit of panic set in.
When it comes to bugs, I really only ever fear spiders (which was induced by my father believing that Arachnophobia is a hilarious film to show children under the ages of 11). It's a ridiculous fear that I've been coping with, and isn't particularly serious. Except for the fact that I am willing to burn down my own house if I ever found one on my person, and would burst into tears if anyone ever tried to play a joke on me with a tarantula, never trusting that person again.
However, bees and wasps are probably second on that list due to the fact that they don't seem to have an issue with personal space. Spiders at least back away or move from your vicinity if you make some movement (unless you're watching a movie about these large poisonous spiders that are actually quite smart and instead take over your barn as a base to make their way into your house and kill you. Then, they're quite unafraid of anything except fire). Bees and wasps? They follow you down. They're like some child who didn't receive the gene that bless most of us with tact, instead placing it with being completely clueless to human dynamics. Whatever DNA is in a spider, or many other bugs, that say, "Hey, if something huge is stomping toward you and making a scene with their arms, get the fuck out and make sure to defend yourself as necessary," these pollinators were jacked. Reckless behavior mixed with anger issues were replaced in those spots.
My fear of them isn't so much as a fear of the bug themselves, but the sting involved. I haven't been stung from a bee since I was about three years old.
It was dark, I heard a buzz, I hid underneath the blankets, and the bee wouldn't leave me alone. It kept landing on my head over everything in the room (I think B&Ws receive signals as an opposite of what they actually are), and my yells were muffled from the layers of blankets. Deciding to take care of the issue myself, I flung the covers out and ran to the light switch. Now that I could see, I carefully looked around my bed to find...nothing. No bees, no wasps, not even a mosquito. I lifted the blankets, shifting them around, but it didn't reveal a thing. So, I shut off the light and made my way back to my covers in pitch darkness. When I reached my bed, I shuffled my hand around to find my pillow and move the blankets back. I placed my hand down firmly on the bed to help me get up into it and then there was pain shooting through my palm, and angry buzzes that were probably curse words in their language. My parents, hearing my wails, had to pluck out the stinger that looked like a heart on a thorn, then dressed the wound with baking soda because it itched but was swollen and had soaked up the creature's anger.
It's amazing that such a vivid memory stands out from something that has never been repeated as it has with others. But I noticed that my father, the few times he's been stung, is pretty allergic. And, since I'm at the point where I feel about due for one, I'm concerned that me being stung means I'll need to drive to the hospital.
Seeing this wasp slowly climb the screen inside my bathroom like a ladder had what I would put close to a Nam flashback and flash-forward.
Without much hesitation, I looked around for something to trap the wasp, wanting to risks of an even more pissed off demon to stay as slim as possible. I wasn't dumb, Trying to take the time to smash a wasp, or any bug, against a giving screen would only allow a greater percentage of it landing on my hand.
The first thing within my reach (I didn't want to leave on the chance of me coming back and having to search for it) was the cap to my hairspray. As soon as I capped it's ass, the buzzing of an unhappy guest echoed in the room. My elevated mood at being so quick dropped when I realized that I didn't have anything for the next step: take a piece of paper and shove it between the screen and cap so I could carry it outside.
At this moment, I would like to mention I was listening to music on my iPhone while getting ready. I find it important for it to be noted that Terminal March from the game Bastion was playing during this event. Carry on.
Feeling a fool, I called for Traci. I yelled again, louder this time. On the verge of beginning to feel stupid for putting myself in this situation, I looked around my bathroom again to see what I could use to seal this cap off. It was pissed. If I thought it wouldn't seek me out in it's anger if I took the cap away, then I'd really be stupid.
I saw my calendar on the wall next to me. At first, I rejected the idea on the chance of bug juice ruining my artsy pictures of birds. This quickly dissipated in a matter of seconds as the incessant buzzing continued, and I kept thinking, 'We have to get going, or else we'll have to deal with traffic and no parking spot!' With terrible sense of direction, I wanted as few problems as possible in an area I don't know too much about.
The first attempt at shoving the paper of my calendar between the screen and the cap failed, causing a yip from me as the bee tried to shove it's head into freedom. The second attempt, with extra months as reinforcement, the papers slide and stayed in place.
Moving the wasp was easier than I thought. I tried to remember that it couldn't sting through sheets of paper and thick plastic, and thought of the good karma I'd receive for letting the wasp go to block my fear. When Traci saw me coming down the stairs, I resisted the urge to say, "Did you not hear my pleas for help?!" Instead, I said calmly, "I'm currently holding a wasp hostage in my hands. Would you mind opening the sliding door?"
When we got to the door, she said, "How are we going to go about this?"
"Um?" I said, trying to ignore the threats from what was trapped. "I figure, you open the door, I toss it outside, then you close the glass as fast as you can."
"Okay! I'm ready!"
We both took a stance of war.
Now, I should mention a bit more about Traci.
As far as I know, Traci isn't scared of spiders or bugs. She is nervous about being stung, sure--but she's the type to smack a mosquito and not say anything than to never go outdoors for fear of ticks and blood suckers. She doesn't mind getting dirty, either. She's basically one step-up from me in any fear department.
She pulled the door open. I tossed with all my might, thinking the energy of my arm thrusting forward would cause the wasp to fling out from the cap, and it would tumble in disarray for a few moments. It would then take out it's anger on a wall or something, then forget what it was doing and do whatever wasps do when they're not trapped in a woman's master bathroom.
Bringing the cap back in, I had a moment of fear that it had attached itself with sticky feet (I don't know, my brain is weird) inside the cap, and it was still in my hand. I yanked my hands inside to inspect. Nothing lay in there, so Traci closed the door.
"I thought..." Traci trailed off, but then shrugged.
"Thanks," I said sheepishly. "I thought it came back in, but--"
Ladies and gentlemen, this then legit-ly happened. Except with a bee.Thunk and all. Except we were on the same side as the bee.
Ladies and gentlemen? Traci and I then screamed at the same time, hands in the air, acting like the stereotypical girls we never are.
"Fucking shit!" I exclaimed, then slammed the cap back over the wasp.
"Oh my god, I thought I heard it come back in!" Traci said, her voice going miles a second. "But then I thought, 'No, Traci, you're crazy, how could it get back in so fast?' and so I dismissed it!"
"Sweet Jesus," I muttered, glancing around at the nearby table. "Could you grab that piece of mail? It's junk."
She handed me a 'special invite' card from Comcast. I was apparently invited to have a good deal on some television channels I never knew existed. I slide it under the cap again. The wasp had nothing nice to say about it.
"What do we do now?" Traci asked. She was obviously doubting our original plan, and I couldn't blame her.
"Um, you open up the door and I set this on the railing and we shut the door again." She opened it up, and I set everything on the rail, then stepped back in.
"You don't want to hit the cap off with a stick or something?" she asked.
"Fuck that," I said, shutting the sliding door myself. "It can sit and die in that thing for all I care at this point. Maybe the wind will take pity."
Later today, as I recalled this hilarious situation to my friends that Traci and I had immediately began laughing over, one asked, "Did you tell your roommate about why that is on your railing? Isn't that where he goes to smoke?"
We began laughing even harder because I hadn't.