Bees are disappearing. That’s upsetting for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that they are a major pollinator and without them the ecological effects to crops would be devastating. Also, what would we make chapstick out of?
Even though science is viewing the mass collapse of hives as a fresh sign of the apocalypse I can only regard it as the dawning of a glorious new era where every single thing in my life doesn’t have to stop just so I can chase one of those little fucks out of my house.
My plans for the day immediately cease to exist once I hear that slow buzz. A sweat breaks out on my upper lip and the bones in my spinal column ratchet themselves upward so that I can strain to hear where it’s coming from. I hold perfectly still like a doe who has caught the whiff of a hunter.
Then I scream like a terrified little girl as it goes whizzing past my face, a hairs breath from my eyelashes and into the other room. Next thing I know I’m backed up against my door in the hall way, shoe in one hand and rolled up Newsweek in the other, my cellphone in the cradle of my neck and shoulder hissing at my boss,
“Hey, yeah, I know I’m supposed to be in at 2:00 today but I can’t make it. Because I can’t. No. No, I won’t be there…Dave…You don’t under…YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. THERE IS A BEE IN MY HOUSE AND IF I LEAVE IT’S GOING TO HIDE. IT WILL HIDE SOMEWHERE I CAN’T FIND AND WHEN I GO TO SLEEP IT WILL STAB ME IN THE EYE WITH THE KNIFE IT HIDES IN IT’S ASS. THEY ALL HAVE ASS KNIVES SO I HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF THIS NOW.“
Then the hunt begins. I will tirelessly and endlessly stare at a section of a wall I can’t reach untill the stripey little bastard tries to make a run for it and passes within my arms flailing reach. I have expended entire cans of hairspray trying to gas them to death. I have broken furniture and prized belongings by jumping over shit in and effort engage in aerial combat with a life form the size of the tip of my pinky. I will not rest and I will not give quarter until the beast is crushed under the sole of Payless tennis shoe.
My mother on the other hand, loves these little shits. So much so that roughly half of her decor is sporting some sort of bee motif. She’s never been sympathetic to my fear. Even when I was little she couldn’t quite understand why I’d let loose a series of keening screams when one or more of the winged horde would fly up to try to mouth fuck my ice cream cone.
“Just leave it alone and it will leave you alone.” My Mom would tell me every time I’d have a full scale meltdown when confronted with a bee.
Really, Mom? Really? Because this bee is frontin’ like he has beef with me and my picnic. I didn’t walk up to her hive and start shaking my face in it like I had a problem. This is my ice cream, Mom! Back me up here!
“You aren’t even allergic. Calm down.” She’d say.
Oh yeah, Mom? Well, I’m allergic to my fear of them. How about that?
What I find so truely offensive about these tiny, stinging home invaders is that they keep getting in somehow despite the fact that all of my windows are either closed or screened. This means that the bee has intentionally flouted decorum and somehow Oceans 11ed its way into my domicile in clear violation of the human/nature code of conduct. Once a bee get’s into your home it has the temerity to act like you have no right to demand its egress. They can’t be reasoned with and a humane solution (trying to shoo it out the window or trap it in a cup) will only end with it stinging you in the hands and/or face.
Here is the thing: Mankind evolved thumbs so that it could build sophisticated tools and lodging to keep nature out. I have a standing gentleman’s agreement with nature that if it’s not in my living space then it will be allowed to live. Other organisms can do whatever the fuck they want out there but in here I am Queen of all I pay 1,149 a month for and I will fucking end you if you should come whizzing though.