The (Wasp) Sting

Thanks to the graciously obliging Schopp family, Ri and I squeezed one last Cape weekend into this crazy-busy summer. A final hurrah. Sayanorah summatime.
(By now you should all know that I’m a self-proclaimed autumn abhorrer...however, I am trying. There are, after all, Mellowcreme pumpkins and hot cider to look forward to.)
But that damn Danny boy ruined it for us. He poured all over our vacation parade.
I hate you Danny.
Alas, we did get in about three hours of beach time. I devoured an amazing book, This Is Where I Leave You, by Jonathan Tropper. My team kicked butt at Pictionary (though the losers are loath to admit it). We alternately danced and froze our asses off at The Beachcomber.
And, to sweeten up our rain-induced bitterness, Colleen whipped up a homemade carrot cake. In between her double shift. After doing laundry. And grocery shopping. And making her infamous buffalo chicken dip. You go girl!
(Yes, we ate our rainy day feelings.)

All in all, ‘twas a lovely, albeit wet, weekend.
Until I was ruthlessly attacked by a vengeful, venomous, vehement yellowjacket.

The scene: Ri and I putting recyclables (aka bags and bags and bags of beer bottles) into the cans out back - innocent partiers helping to clean up.

But to those nasty ass wasps, we were alien invaders entering their comfortable garbage-can home.

Suddenly there was a searing pain in my shoulder. I looked down and started shrieking and dancing around. Then I was screaming and frantically blowing and swatting at my arm.


Somehow, some way, a sneaky little yellowjacket had taken it upon himself to sting the shit out of my shirted shoulder. Didn’t think it was possible to sting through a thick cotton shirt? Neither did I. But believe me, it is.

Oh man, it is.

Ass aimed at my red shirt like a bull’s horns at a matador, that sucker really gave it to me. His little body was bent in half with a resolute effort to heave his stinger into to my shoulder. That's how hard he was trying.

If I didn’t hate the shit out of that yellowjacket, I’d have given him props for protecting his brood and his food with such tenacity. Cause HE DID NOT LET GO. And I did not stop hopping and screaming until Ri (brave friend-o-mine) flicked the bastard away.
I cannot rightly remember the last time I was stung by a wasp. Sure, there’s always the handful of baby yellowjacket stings around my parents pool. But those infants are dumb and bumbling and use their half-ass stingers half-assedly. Their stings hurt, sure, but it’s more like a horse-fly hurt.

Big bad adult yellowjacket stings hurt like whoa. Like unbelievable, infinitesimal whoa. Like nothing’s hurt me that bad in a long, looooong time. I’d rather get my blood taken every day for a week or have five flu shots than get stung by one of those mother suckers.

Twelve hours later, it was still bothering me. The worst part was the combination of horrific feelings. Painfully hot and sore. Itchy and uncomfortable. Throbbing and red. Even my goddamn shoulder muscle was killing me.

Twenty-four hours. Still hurting.
I guess I really can’t talk shit about those eleven-year-olds who cry like babies when they’re stung cause boy oh boy I really felt like I was thisclose to crying and fifteen years wasn’t much of an excuse at all. 

Worst part? That little dastardly yellowjacket, unlike its cousin the bee, will live to sting another day.