Bee-holes.

“Bee-holes”. That is a new term I created to describe the way I feel about bees at this stage of my life. It’s a pretty accurate description, and I think fairly self-explanatory. First, I think it’s important to give you a little backstory on how I feel about bugs in general, but most importantly: bees. Spiders could probably get their own blog entirely, but I will briefly mention them here so you can make sense of my crazy bug drama.
I am not a killer. I don’t kill things. I don’t kill bugs or animals, and I try really hard not to kill plants or any other living thing (besides weeds, because lawn-care is important to me). I’ve had a thousand few bug incidents that have traumatized me to my core. Somehow, because of those incidents, I’ve become the crazy lady who catches bugs in the house by scooping them into cups with a piece of paper over the top, and then I frantically run around screaming like a complete spaz until I get them back outside where they belong. I usually just willy-nilly throw them out of the cup with a vengeance some mild force, so they’re far enough away from the house to not be able to get back in, or come near me ever again. I never actually check to see if they survive the flight out to the yard, but I’m sure they do; I mostly hope they do. If they’re big, or scary looking, I will, on occasion, suck them up with the vacuum hose and then take the vacuum canister outside and set them on fire free. I’m starting to sound like some kind of bug saving hippie, aren’t I? I realize this probably seems weird to most of you, but what can I say….being nice takes effort sometimes. I made an effort with the bee-holes for a while, but that will happen exactly zero times in the future.
Let me tell you about one of my many traumatic experiences, and maybe that will help you make sense of my nonsensical “bug-hippie-ness”.
There was one very specific and traumatic spider incident that in essence, is the sole reason why I don’t kill bugs. That, and the fact that I just think it’s mean and pointless to kill things unless they’re hurting you somehow. Bees do not fall into this category anymore; it is kill, or ‘bee’ killed as far as I’m concerned. I’ll make it brief so we can move on to the bees. *Narrator: but she will not make it brief, because she is incapable of making anything brief* There was a monster spider at our house (pretty sure it was a wolf spider) And when I say “monster” I mean, I could see its eyeballs, it’s hairy body, and it was like the size of a closed adult fist. It was huge. *”Uge” in case Donald Trump reads my blog or the off chance you’re one of those annoying people that don’t pronounce the ‘H’* Hubs and I took our dog outside one night and ‘monster spider’ came charging out of a bush somewhere, and scared us both half to death. I just shivered as I’m reliving it in my head. One of us, I honestly can’t remember who, smashed it with a shoe and then hundreds of little baby (soon to be monster) spiders scattered all around us. We fuuuh-reaked. Out! Thankfully we were outside when it all went down, but OMG, it still haunts me to this day. Did you know spiders carry their babies on their backs? Well, you do now, so beware next time you think about being a spider murderer. I have never killed a spider since that happened and that was almost 20 years ago. *shivers* It actually makes me feel bad when I think about killing all those baby spiders’ mom, so now I let spiders build webs around my outside areas and I am friendly with them and leave them alone – as long as they reciprocate both of those gestures.

Bees…so many stings, so little time. I have so many bee stories I could probably write a book. For time’s sake, let me take you on a quick trip down memory lane for one of the most memorable bee traumas I’ve ever had.
When I was in my newly married stage of life, my husband and I bought our first house. It was a small house but it was ours and was sort of amazing at the time. We spent a lot of time fixing that place up and making it our own, and we just fully embraced that newlywed chapter of our lives. I mean, who doesn’t love the newlywed stage? Those were the days, man. Life was ‘easy’ then, but we didn’t know it at the time. *do you ever wish you could go back and tell your young-self all the things your current-self knows about life? I totally do. But since I can’t, I just shovel all that information into my kids’ brains, and they’re all like, “whatever, mom” and then go back into their cell phone/video game coma’s* Part of fixing up a house means that you spend a lot of your free time on the weekends making random trips to the hardware store. One summer, the hubs (I call him “hubs” only for blog/privacy purposes; I’m not that annoying) and I hopped in his old -non-air-conditioned- Chevy truck. We had the windows down and the music blaring, and we were on a mission to Menard’s for whatever we needed on that particular day. I am being the optimal travel companion, as always; happily belting out the tunes and embracing all the hot, fresh air, and was just totally and completely immersed in my “it’s a perfect Saturday, and I’m in love, and in a really good mood” vibe. *If I’m being totally honest, I probably had my eyes closed and was doing a lot of hand-dancing, and head swaying. I still do that, and I don’t feel a single ounce of shame about it either* I am ultimately, livin’ my best life on this ride-along to Menard’s.

Imagine how caught off guard I was when we were in the middle of a traffic-filled road, and a bee flew into the truck and landed on my thigh. It’s a miracle I’m still alive to write about it. I did what any grown woman in distress would do. I tried to stand up in the truck *logical* while screaming at my husband to PULL. OVER!!! He didn’t, because he couldn’t, and that only intensified my complete panic and frustration. He’s yelling at me to calm down and stop moving, and I’m yelling at him to shut up and save my life! People in the surrounding cars probably thought we were high, or on the verge of divorce. For sure, one or the other. *remember: no a/c – windows are down – everyone can hear us.* Now the bee is crawling up my thigh at a rapid pace and I have officially lost my mind. In my frantic -still buckled into the seatbelt, can’t stand up, or run- attempt at shoo-ing it off, I startled the bee and it flew for cover. “Cover” being UP MY SHORTS! Let me reiterate the gravity of this situation: I am a panicked adult woman in the middle of a traffic jam, and I have a startled bee flying around IN MY SHORTS. Jesus take the wheel (and then PULL.OVER!!! I’M SERIOUS!)

After a very intense several minutes we made it to our destination. Time to assess the damage. Let me just say: If you ask your husband to investigate the upper part of your thigh while you’re in the middle of a giant hardware store, people are going to stare. They just are. I didn’t care though. I was frazzled and at that point, it was more important to me to make sure my husband knew how much better off we’d be if he had just pulled into oncoming traffic and saved my life like I asked him to in the first place. I am not in love anymore and he needs to know it! He eventually calmed me down and got the stinger out like a boss, but was somehow unsuccessful in locating the bee. Are you serious right now? You want me to just casually walk around Menard’s knowing there’s a dead bee in my shorts somewhere? And what do you mean by “it’s dead anyway so we can just find it when we get home”? Uh, negative ghost rider. That is not happening. NO. Do you know me at all? Do they sell wine at Menard’s? Please just take me home; we can build a bathroom next weekend.
About a month ago I got stung for the 829th time and naturally, I wrote about it on my Facebook page:
“I just got my 4th bee sting for the year, which seems a little excessive if you ask me. I realize we have a bee shortage and the world is going to end if we don’t love all the bees, and make them little bee homes, and plant little bee flowers, but I’M OUT! I don’t want a personal relationship with the bees. I don’t love the bees, and I will never love the bees. THEY. ARE OUT. TO GET ME!
Every time a bee comes near I follow the standard protocol. I blow really hard at the bee. I yell ‘things’ loudly while clenching my body. I run away. I get stung. Let me just say: When a grown woman runs away from you, screaming: this is not flirting – this is not a game – SHE DOES NOT WANT YOU – lose her number!!!