“I didn’t do it.”

I’m not sure if I made myself clear when I wrote about how much I hate fire ants, but I’m happy to recap:

  • They’re evil.
  • They can and should all burn in hell.
  • The universe would be a better place without them.
  • I hate them.

When I walk, especially through the field, I never stop looking down. I am hyperaware of stepping in an ant pile for fear of their wrath, and I look like I’m traversing a jagged cliff on the edge of a hot lava pit trying to avoid potential pain. It’s exhausting, I assure you.


This is me, except not a cat, because I don’t do cats. Unless this is a badass cat. Then I am this cat. Definitely.

Yesterday I let Sydney out the front door for a potty break and she followed my husband to the back yard, so I went through the house to let her in from the back porch. I was outside for 20 seconds – maybe even less – and I felt a searing pain in my toe. The words “Wow, there are a lot of wasps out here” (and there were – maybe 20 or more) had barely rolled off my tongue before one of them had lighted upon my foot and stung me. Twice.

I was confused at first – why was my toe on fire? Then I was mad – HOLY CRAP THAT HURTS. Then I burst into tears and wailed like you’ve never heard wailing before. It was a caterwaul to end all caterwauls. Sydney was super freaked out – here I am, her mom, she’s very protective of me, I’ve lost my mind, borderline hysterical with pain, and I’m trying to drag her inside. She wanted to help me – clearly I was dying a painful death right before her eyes – but also maybe this was a new game? Maybe? Hopefully? She wanted to jump on me and lick my face and all I wanted was for both of us to be inside, away from yet MORE evil stinging things from my property.

It was chaos.

Stuff like this always happens so fast, but then in hindsight when you’re replaying the event in your mind’s eye, you remember things. Would you like to know what I remembered? I’m going to tell you. As soon as the first high-pitched note of my expert-level howling escaped my mouth, my husband said, “I didn’t do it.”

And in hindsight, that’s pretty funny. He wanted no responsibility in causing me pain, because WOAH the wrath. And for the record – he came in and hugged me and said he was sorry the bad stingy thing hurt me. That made it all better – plus Roman Chamomile and Lavender, because Essential Oils. Duh.

But now I officially declare that the wasps can also join the fire ants in the burning pits of Hades.


One thought on ““I didn’t do it.”

  1. Pingback: The Chicken Saga Continues | From Boats To Goats

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