Imma, Imma, Imma Bee

This morning I decided to take advantage of rare low humidity and exceptional cloud cover by working on the patio. Addison was napping, so I was really grooving in the work zone, apparently tuned out from most goings on around me.

Then I felt a little pinch on my thigh, not painful but noticeable. So I look down and see a tiny black tip of something poking through the fibers of my pajama pants. And then the something moved underneath my pants.

Enter that sense of sheer terror that you know is so unfounded and irrational but also too overpowering to counteract. I. Am. Going. To. Die.

But the terror mixed with the reality of being outside where neighbors are just a few feet away and my sleeping, possibly teething baby could not, under the direst of circumstances, be awoken.

I threw my computer off of my lap, grabbed a handful of my pants where the winged demon was last spotted and let out some sort of guttural, stifled, extended yelp as I prance-tripped through the sliding doors into the kitchen. I promptly attempted to de-pants myself, which proved a challenge given the state of my mental faculties (read: absent) and the death grip I had on that swatch of pant leg. Finally, the pants were off and the black, hideously oversized, buzzing bee-ish Creature emerged, pissed off of course, and began flying around my head.

More noises from the pit of my soul.

At this point, I high kneed it into the bedroom, still swatting at the bug’s invisible remnants on my leg. This was not a retreat. I’m no coward. I was simply regrouping under adequate cover. When I confirmed that my leg was, in fact, still attached to my body and not sawed off by a miniscule yet remarkably powerful stinger, I made a game plan. Numero uno: grab the camera and take a picture, obviously.

I wish I would have had Addison or the dog or a bird of prey for size comparisons, but time did not permit such luxuries. After snapping a shot or six, I failed at the tip-toed, bent over, flip-flop toss at the general direction of The Creature. Wily little bugger. It was time to call in the big guns. Lysol. Perhaps not exactly prescribed for insect annihilation, but I never read the fine print on those bottles, so who knows? I had injured The Creature enough to keep it in my sights for a solid 30-second stream of chemicals. I recycle. Stop judging me.

Suddenly realizing I was performing these athletic maneuvers sans pants abruptly ended the onslaught. But I think I made my point. And gave the neighbors a fantastic show for their hump day morning.


I’m leaving The Creature as it lies so that my husband cannot simply pretend to listen to my seemingly exaggerated story. I am making sure I have half-alive props for the ensuing reenactment. I hope The Academy is watching.


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