Tuesday was an eventful day, in a thoroughly mundane sense. There was a wasp in my kitchen. Naturally, I am afraid of wasps.

And my death-dealing, ultra-poisonous magical wasp-slaying spray?

Under the kitchen sink.

Right below the wasp.

Aided in the firm belief that the wasp was a member of the Polistes family, and thus "generally non-aggressive," I watched the wasp very carefully and knelt down to get the spray can out of the cupboard. Then I heartlessly sprayed it to death, delivering a massive amount of poison to the wasp and everything around it, also known as "my kitchen, including the kitchen sink."

I didn’t have time to do anything else before I went swimming and then to work, so I left the wasp in the sink and the spray, well, everywhere. I opened up a window to air the place out and no doubt let in 47 of the wasp’s closest buddies, and left for work.

When I got home I immediately checked the sink, gingerly moving aside several dirty dishes in case the wasp had decided to play dead, lie in wait for its murderer and sting her mercilessly.

No wasp.

"But wait!" you might say. "It must have gone down the drain!"

Not a chance. The wasp was a big, healthy specimen of its terrifying breed and no chance of getting through the drain basket in my sink.

In other words, somewhere in my apartment there is a very angry and very alive wasp.

From now on, my waspicide is going everywhere with me, because you know what they say.

Keep your friends close, and your death-inducing anti-wasp spray closer.

What do you mean, they don’t say that?

They should.