The nest of bees in my front lawn

Oh man this sucks. I'm suddenly seven years old again, near tears and screaming out "no" when I see something flying by.

When Bob lived here, he cut my lawn. I can't recall for sure but I don't recall ever having seen him do so in flipflops. Good thing.

After Bob left, my friend Alan cut it for me. And at the very end, he was stung by a bee. I felt very sorry for him, and tried to be a good nurse, trying all the things you hear about: clorox, clay, tobacco. And none of it seemed to help. I recalled for him the times when, during the summertime, I would regularly get stung by bees.

People, that's not helpful. Nobody wants to hear about your pain when theirs is raw. Lessons learned.

So today in spite of all I have got to get done in the next little while, I wanted at least my front lawn mowed. And so I went out there and did it. All, that is, except for this little wonky patch right smack in the middle of the yard.

Lovely.

Man those bees were mad. Tons of 'em swarming around me and dive bombing my face and legs and feet. Especially my feet. I'm surprised only two of 'em got me. Three more hung on. I ran out of my flipflops screaming...anybody who rides by here is gonna' wonder what the heck happened out there. (I should take a picture of the front yard. Prolly will when I get over my fear of opening the front door.) Straight into the shower, pulling off my clothes, running cold, cold water on my feet as hard as the pressure would come. Not hard enough, let me tell you. Just sitting there with the water washing over me while I cried. Never think you're that tough. Well, I won't, anyway. Always kinda' thought I was.

I was wrong.

So I'm sitting there in the shower marveling that anything that tiny can create that much pain. Last week when it was Alan's finger and not my feet, it made perfect sense. The uniqueness of nature and all. They suck, bigtime, but how else is anything that little gonna' protect themselves, right?

Well they shouldn't. They should just die like good little bees, and go on to bee heaven which is much less torturous than my front yard, anyway, with it's fast spinning metal blades and all.

Then I stood up and showered, still whimpering. (There's a weird sound coming from over there in my office, and I'm not making this up. Great. Now I'm turning into one of those wimpy, wussy girls. What is it, I wonder?) So I'm showering and suddenly one of those bees comes flying out of the pile of clothes left on the floor. I'm screaming again and turning the water nozzle toward it. It falls. I pelt it with water and it's strong. Not gonna' give up. Me neither, buddy. I drowned it and don't feel one bit guilty.

But here's the trouble now. When I got out of the shower, and started drying off, two more flew up from the floor. All around the little bathroom they flew. I ran from the room screaming. And they're still in there. With my cell phone.

Man I need to make a phonecall.