Here I was wondering if I should start a blog and how I would keep it funny and interesting. How would I take my day to day life and make it exciting and funny for people and BAM attacked by angry bees. It’s like a sign or something. “How did you decide to start blogging?”
“Oh I was just attacked by angry bees, it was nothing really.”
We were collecting rocks for the foundation of our new chicken coup, when I looked to the left and saw more yellow jackets then I have ever seen in my entire life pouring out of a hole in the ground.
I leapt up and screamed at Scott “AAUUGGGGGHH hoards of angry bees! RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!” I stopped and untied the dog who was out with us. Which if you stop to think about it was damn decent of me, when I looked at Scott who was standing perfectly still looking at me with an annoyed expression. I freed the dog with shaking fingers and dropped her lead on the ground, because hey it was everyone for themselves now.
“Just get some spectracide and take care of it.” He said in an angry yet weary tone as though I had orchestrated this entire thing just to fuck with him somehow. It was at this point that I noticed I had already been stung in the back, and now was being stung painfully in the wrist. I ripped my gloves off and took off down the road screaming. I managed to turn and look back about halfway to the house, and see my dog, husband and cat all standing there looking at me like I am the dumbest person to ever walk this earth.
At this point, although I’m not entirely sure, I think the hoard must have caught up with them, because the dog and I reached the door at the same time. I threw it open and barreled in but the dog had a moment of hesitation that allowed several bees to enter the house with us. I slammed the door shut and took off running again. The bees that had come in with us were still bent wholly upon our destruction, and I had to run for it in my own home. My only thought was to make to the bathroom, which I did and shoved the door shut behind me. Safety!
It was there I had the second realization, that I am completely covered in bees. They were tangled in my shirt and pant cuffs, ineffectively stinging the fabric, looks of hate on their tiny insect faces. I could almost hear them shouting “Down with our human oppressors!”
I LOST MY SHIT. I proceeded to attack them with the hair brush and then drown them in the sink (I know that drowning them in the sink is next to impossible because of how insects breath though their abdomens and to do it properly I’d half to put soap in the water to destroy the surface tension or some bullshit but I was panicking OK?) At this point I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT when I heard Scott’s voice down the hallway. “Are you okay babe?”
I responded that I had been stung several times and I was trying to kill the remaining bees still on me. I don’t know if he understood though because the words were punctuated with the sound of me hitting bees wildly with the hair brush. At this point I had managed to pull off most of my clothes.
Once I had gotten all the bees murdered, I left the bathroom for the bedroom, where I encountered the dog, and proceeded to put on fresh clothes because I’ll be damned if I’m fighting a bunch of pissed off bees naked. I hear Scott shout something about the living room is filled with angry bees, but I’m too busy wigging to really pay much attention. This exclamation is followed by the sound of a fly swatter hitting several things and then Scott starts shouting expletives followed by the sound of him stomping. Moments later he appears in the bedroom and shuts the door calmly behind him. “I think we’ll just give them a few minutes to calm down” he said rubbing the spot on his head where he had been stung.
Here we both were hiding in the bedroom, peeking out ever few moments to watch a bunch of murderous highly confused bees ping off the windows, and I realized that this was the shit they never talk about that smarmy countryside magazine.
“What are we going to do?” I asked quietly.
“Well we’ll have to go after them with the fly swatter since you won’t let me use spectracide inside the house anymore.”
“You know suddenly I’m okay with it.”
Which is how I ended up cleaning spectracide off everything in the kitchen, which was a goddamned adventure because our sink is broken and I had to keep filling up a big stew pot with water to wash things in. Also I had to dump it in the toilet because I’ll be damned if I’m going back outside today.
Plus the bees keep buzzing my window and glaring at me and now I am really, really afraid of going back outside.
Send food. And Beer. And ointment. I might be here awhile.
We lived, briefly, in place where things like that happened. I remember my dad making my brother do "ONE MORE LAP!" around the house to try to lose the bees before he let him in.ReplyDelete
Now we live in the city and only have to worry about meth heads and angsty teenagers. I prefer the bees.