Whelp. Spring has officially sprung around here. I know, not because of crocuses or daffodils (though we do have some of those that are quite pretty right now), but because of the *#$&*#^@ wasps.
These little buggers have been the bane of our existence since we moved here.
We tolerated them, mostly, at first because hey, we're in the woods. They live here. Leave them alone and they'll leave you alone. Blah blah blah. Taking care to just spray and knock out the little hives they tried to build on the eaves of the house.
Then youngest, out playing as boys do, happened upon a ground nest, got seven or eight really painful stings, and spent most of the rest of the next six weeks hyperventilating if you asked him to go outside.
Joy.
We've tried all the things. Our pest control company says they put special stuff out to deter them from the house (ha!) We keep a can of spray handy at all times.
And yet. As I sit here in the living room and look out the patio doors, I can see four of the dang things zipping about.
This year, I'm working on convincing hubby we need to hang traps. The interwebs gives varying reports on efficacy, but at this point, I'd try dancing in the moonlight to the beat of a drum if it had the slightest chance of at least relegating them to the forest so youngest would not be freaking out every time anything that flies appears. (Honestly, he sees mosquito and says "Wasp!" Like no. I get it. It sucked. But let's just not.)
The mosquitos are another issue. As yet, our bat house appears untenanted, so I may have to take matters into my own hands for the dumb little blood suckers as well.
Ah, the joy of country living.
Or something.
*(I don't actually expect anyone to spot the album title here, but back in the day, my sister and I were big fans of Stryper. This album in particular. It seemed fitting.)
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