SEATTLE, Washington: All morning, Edward taunts me: "don't swear on the radio, don't swear on the radio."
"You know what happens when you say that?"
But he's a kindly big brother and treats me to a panino and coffee before my half-hour ramble on Escapes, an Atlanta radio program. As we walk back to the office, I'm the victim of a hit-and-run wasp attack. Pain folds me to the pavement, sight unseen.
Forget swearing on the radio. I manage a few choice epithets in the old Ballard library parking lot.
I haven't been stung in about 25 years. After all, I'm respectful of insects and calm around them, not poking or swatting or provoking.
Tears gush, partly from the shock of this random evil act. "And it won't even die like a bee," I sob, deprived of vengeance.
"Wasps are just purely mean," Edward says.
"But look on the bright side: you're all stuffed up now. If you swear on the radio, no one will probably understand."