Mr "D" the guy who cuts my grass came this morning to mow the African veldt looking vista my yard had become. Grass knee high in back, ankle high in front, the azalea bushes out front sprouted from their last trim, looking like a guy with a crewcut who has let it go. A mess.

So Mr. D starts by weed eating around everything and trimmed the azaleas. Then he starts to put up a short clothesline on the carport. A clothesline has been my Don Quixote search for several years. I can't get anybody to put up a frickin simple little short clothesline in the back yard.

Mr. D brought some contraption that unrolls a four foot length of string, ersatz clothesline, but had nothing to anchor it to. (This is the flimsy kind of line a woman hangs her undies or hosiery on, not wet rugs.) But as he was pulling and stretching it, he touched a wind chime shaped like a bell, and stinging wasps roiled out. He went to his truck and got some gasoline--meanwhile I was hopping along as fast as I could to get bug spray.

I come out and see him throwing gas up into the bell--OMG--gas.
Then he knocked it to the ground, and guess what? No wasp nest at all. Maybe they were just having a breakfast meeting or something. He said he could stretch the line between two of the front porch posts. (How tacky that would look? NO. I'm poor but save me from tacky.)
Mr. D once knocked down a dirt dauber nest for me and sprayed gas on it as he held his cigarette lighter on it. Jesus!

He wears a cowboy hat and cowboy boots and is going dove hunting tomorrow--a macho kind of guy--maybe that's why his solution to bugs is GAS 'EM!

susil (As I search for the fire extinguisher)