Ah, wasps. Your aliases are a clue to the ways you are hated. Hive-minded demons of the air. Lemon-banded bastards. Summer’s disgrace.
Yellowjacket wasps are picnic-ruiners, flying snakes with bad attitudes. Like Gorgons, if you kill one it emits a chemical that brings a hundred others to your yard. You better not have left any milkshake out.
Don’t hate the player, love the style. Who can deny that wasps are divas? Like all divas, they never remove their shades, have an enviable belted waist and a stinger through which they pump a venomous mixture of peptides. They’re S&M coded and that jacket? Iconic. Yellow and black is so bold, so sexy. Wasps are the Rihannas of the sky.
They also co-evolved as pollinators of the most decadent plants. Without them we wouldn’t have orchids or figs. They spread brewer’s yeast, responsible for making wine, beer and bread. In fact, wasps can’t stay away from beer and often drown in it. What a human frailty.
They’re drawn to a picnic, but so is Yogi bear. So are you. If wasps didn’t exist, your tartan blanket would be swarming with spiders and mosquitoes. Have you tried shooing away a mosquito?
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When you see that optimistic pop of yellow, it’s a sign that summer is here. Wasps die in winter as, unlike bees, they don’t store food. Let’s pour one out for these snappy-dressing gourmands. Or, if you want to be left alone, just light some citronella, ella, ella.
Photograph by Shaw + Shaw