On Monday I had lunch on a patio with my son and his girlfriend.
Here’s a photo of James and my margarita:
Unfortunately a wasp fell into the dregs of my margarita and succumbed to its intoxicatants while I tried desperately to save his life. I got him out and laid him on the table, where he flailed valiantly for a minute or two before finally collapsing motionless.
I was kind of sad. James was amused in a sympathetic sort of way. Tara was just glad he was dead.
But wait! Twenty minutes later I saw a leg wave! I was thrilled. James was interested. Tara said it was just the breeze.
Soon the little fella was rubbing his forelegs together and lurching from side to side as he attempted to right himself. I felt a little sorry for him because he was probably suffering the worst hangover of his life. James was happy for him. Tara was pissed off that we hadn’t let him die when we had the chance.
Eventually it was time to go, but the born-again wasp was still not well enough to travel. We didn’t want to leave him on the table, because the waitress would probably “clean him up.” I thought we should relocate him safely under the bench. James thought we should wrap him in a napkin and take him to a safe grassy spot. Tara thought we should grind him under our heels.
Here he is in his safe grassy spot. Don’t you love happy endings?