Monday, 25 July 2011

Bee swarm in the bedroom.

Last Wednesday I woke up to the buzz of a honeybee.

It was obviously agitated. I understood; I was agitated, too. I'm highly allergic to the fuzzy little things, and not happy to have it in bed with me.

My first instinct, which I followed, was to run screaming from the bedroom. Standing on the other side of the slammed door, I realized Lawrence wouldn't be home from work for hours. I needed to deal with this myself.

So, I gathered up my courage (which I'd thrown willy-nilly in my mad dash from the bedroom), slowly opened the door and snuck* back in.

The bee buzzed against the window glass. It terrified me, but I was determined to let it live. After all, bees are not wasps or hornets. They serve a purpose, are on the decline, and sole makers of wonderful sweet gooey goodness. So, I bravely reached past it, opened the window, and coaxed it out.

Man did I feel good about myself. I'd saved the life of a cute little brown bee. I'd conquered my fear. Go me!

In spite of my joy, I closed the window again, just in case it decided to return.

Adrenaline still tickling my heart, I went into the office to call my husband. He was proud of me. I rocked. I no sooner hung up—when I heard a sound I didn't like.


Another bee in the house.

Now I freaked.

All the windows in the house were closed. One stray bee I could understand, but two? That couldn't be good. I tore downstairs, tossed stuff out from under the sink, and scrounged for wasp spray. Yes, I know bees are good, but if I get stung I have to go to the hospital. My sympathy meter had dropped from happy, ecologically-friendly green to Danger-Danger-Will-Robinson orange.

I took the spray into the office, pointed at the bee, told it I was sorry, and sprayed. It fell, made a few small sounds, and then went silent.

I felt bad.

Until I heard the buzzzzzzzz.