In recent weeks, three friends have asked for a copy of this old piece of mine, something that was published at the now defunct Journal of Modern Post. I thought I'd post it here. This was written pre-grad school, but I still kind of like it.
Happy Christmas, friends. Happy Christmas.
Dear Wasp That Stung Me,
I thought I’d take this opportunity to write you a personal letter, a little correspondence from me to you, to let you know how displeased I was at the unfolding of today’s events. Let’s recap. There I was, minding my business, buying take-n-bake pizzas and salad, when you landed on one of the pies in question. I realize you probably didn’t have a good view of me at that point, since you were under one of the pizzas, but I knew you were there. And I, like all gentle, kind and earth-loving humans, did not want to harm one tiny wing on your yellow-and-black body. Also, I am allergic to you and all your brethren, WTSM. So, I calmly set the pizzas down on the bumper and looked for you. I looked under and around the pizzas. I gently, carefully, lifted up the salad. I did not see you. So, WTSM, please pardon my mistake at placing all food items, items which you were obviously interested in, in the trunk of the car. I certainly did not mean to place you in the boiling hot trunk, and would never have left you in there while I drove five minutes to the grocery store, as that would be extremely rude to do to any guest.
Perhaps you noticed my look of surprise—would it be too heavy-handed to call it horror?—when I opened the trunk to retrieve my purse, and noticed you, WTSM, there, looking rather verklempt. Nothing in the world could have stopped me from immediately offering up my most sincere apologies, except for one thing: your large, brightly colored, phallic-shaped nether-region heading straight for my arm.
I hopped. I jumped. I screamed, daintily I hoped, but still you alighted on my arm and began plunging your quiver into my flesh. Now I know, WTSM, this is an instinctual trait, and an important one at that. You and your kind would have not survived for thousands of years had you been less aggressive, less territorial, less, shall we use the colloquialism “pissy”? But, as Miss Manners always says, “It is far more impressive when others discover your good qualities without your help,” and isn’t that something we should all try to remember? Let’s be fair, though. I might have deserved the first sting. Perhaps I deserved the second as well. But the third was rather extravagant, and the fourth, well, that was just positively gauche. So, while I can offer up my most heartfelt sympathies for the rather painful blow you received from my wallet, the blow that squashed you into a smallish mess, I must remind you that sometimes we need to keep our excessive little stingers to ourselves.
Because you cannot know what transpired after you expired, I will now take pains to make sure you realize just how put out I was because of your excessive point-and-poke party, WTSM. After your hasty exit from the scene, I wobbled into the grocery store. I was sickly, at best, and thought for a moment “perhaps I should have packed my Baedeker!” But I trudged onward, and headed to the deli and foreign cheeses section, though I do not know why. I must have looked terrible because, at the precise moment when I was approaching the smoked Gouda, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, and saw that it was a grocery clerk. Not just any clerk, WTSM, but my favorite one, the cute boy who can’t be older than 19, with the smattering of freckles across his nose, and the warm, brown eyes.
I’m not sure if they have something similar in the wasp world, WTSM, but here, in the human world, some of us women are driven crazy by something called The Slightly Geeky Boy. And this clerk is the pinnacle of Slightly Geeky, with the freckles, the serious-but-still-bemused expression, the lightly ruffled hair. If there were a Mr. Slightly Geeky Boy of the Universe, this clerk would win, black-framed glasses down. So when he tapped my shoulder and I turned, I should have felt happiness, relief that my hero was there. But no, I knew the grumblings of my stomach and the miscreant saliva rivulets of my mouth all too well. And if I had had but one more moment, I might have been able to stop myself, but as it was, I had been stung four times—FOUR!—by you, WTSM, and so instead of turning away towards the comforting cheeses and silent slaws, I vomited on Mr. Slightly Geeky’s shoes.
This, WTSM, is not an appropriate mating ritual, in case you were wondering.
You also cannot know how horrified I was, WTSM. My apex of horror did not go unchallenged long, though, as I vomited twice more, before slipping in my own puddle, and falling on the floor. Now I know you are likely not familiar with the effects of your own vicious venom, but as one who is allergic to your potent poison, I know all too well how fast I need to tell someone of my situation. At the same time, I am a person who does not necessarily do well in stressful, emergency-type situations.
For example once, when I was in high school, I caught the restaurant I worked at on fire. It was early morning and, in my panicked state, I said the sentence, “Fire! Wood! Wall!” as I ran around looking for a fire extinguisher. This was simply my panic-induced speech, as linguistic expertise under duress is not my forte, WTSM. Now on this day, in our friendly store, poor, bedrenched lad standing near me, I was thinking about how I had just eaten Mexican food for lunch. Then I recalled a television show I had seen on bee and wasp allergies some years back where a woman, who was highly allergic to wasps, was stung by several as she walked up the aisle to her wedding. She ended up not having an allergic reaction because, as doctors later decided, her natural adrenaline from the stress of being married saved her life (more likely it was the stress of wondering if she had ordered enough chicken plates). Of course, these were coherent thoughts I was pondering, but what came out was slightly different. What I said to my Geeky Clerk was “Mexican Wedding.”
“Mexican Wedding,” WTSM, is not something most people utter, and certainly not people who have just vacated the contents of their stomach in front of the fromage display. And because of my situation, I was unable to come up with anything else to tell the beautiful clerk boy. I suspect he sat there, after yelling for someone to call an ambulance and strategically placing himself next to me as to avoid my own foul stomachy-ness on the floor, and tried to imagine under what circumstances anyone’s possible dying words would be “Mexican Wedding.”
And though I could utter nary a word, my Geeky Clerk held my hand, and was quite willing to tell the EMTs who arrived, moments later, that I had just come from a Mexican Wedding. The paramedics, gratefully, noticed the four giant welts on my arm, and I was finally able, on the way to the hospital, to choke out the word wasp! Thankfully, they did not think I was speaking of my social status, as we all know how uncivilized that would be.
So, for my part, I am sorry about your most untimely demise, but I want you to know that my wallet still carries your mark, and I shall, of course, carry it there for the rest of my days.
All my best,
Terrible Mother
(8-2004)
