The summer before fifth grade, my friends McCaye Badger, Becky Oblad, and I became professionals in the world of experimental bee elimination. We were fearless. There was a fire hydrant in my front yard where a colony of bees had set up camp. I feel like that bee-infested hydrant occupied the entire summer for us... or at least a month of it... or a week. We tried everything. We taped the entrances of the hydrant so the bees would have no exit strategy. When we untaped the hydrant, the bees were waiting, angry and anxious to escape their quarantine. We tried putting pieces of ham and turkey (because according to eleven-year olds, bees are drawn to lunch meat) inside water balloons to trap the bees inside and test whether or not they could sting their way out.
Fast forward to sophomore year of high school. Tyler Snelgrove's back yard. At the wise old age of fifteen, we (I remember Steve being there, Tyler, and maybe James?) decided to catch bees in a tupperware container, freeze them for several hours, tie string around them while they were frozen, hang them from the gutter, and then let them thaw out to find that they had been mysteriously roped.
I don't know why.
And I'm sorry to those of you who vehemently defend the rights of bees (my nephew Andrew being included. After seeing Seinfeld's Bee Movie, he has a very soft spot for bees and their vital roles in their families). But the bees never seemed to mind my scientific endeavors. I've never been stung by one.
BUT. This summer the tides have turned. Either I have digressed in guts or the bees are getting even... years later. Scott and I haven't put the screens on our windows yet, and I have been attacked by HUGE bees the last couple days. We're practically inviting them in with our wide open windows.
Two of them set up camp in the bathroom yesterday. One of them left, and Scott "took care of" bee #2 last night.
And today Scott got a frantic phone call from me while he was at work. A gigantic bee flew into the room, and I swear I've never been so panicked. What's my problem? I smash spiders. I set mouse traps. A bee? I used to be a BEE HUNTER! I'm usually the kind of girl who would have a little chat with the bee... give it a name... bring it a little plate of lunch meat.
I don't know what I expected Scott to do, but I guess misery loves company, and I wanted a little sympathy and advice.
After laughing at me for a few solid minutes Scott asks me very practically (I love that that he gives it the seriousness that it deserves... he goes along with all my stupid bits), "So Lindsey, what do you think you're going to do?"
"I was thinking of just giving him the bedroom. We don't need the bedroom. In fact, maybe we should just give him the house."
The bedroom now belongs to the bee upstairs. Until Scott gets home. I guess I'm one of those girls who needs her husband to kill the bees. I never knew I was so scared of bees all of a sudden. My panicked phone call to Scott took me completely by surprise. I'm kind of grossed out by myself.
But you know what. I'll win this in the end. Once the bee spends an afternoon trapped in our non- air conditioned bedroom on the top level of our apartment complex, he will be sorry he forced me out of my own room while I was in the middle of folding the laundry. Right now I'm wondering if bee's have a cooling mechanism. Do bees sweat? Do they get so overheated that they implode? Something I must know. Will google.
To put the heat into perspective, I just went to get the butter out of my cupboard to make a late lunch, and it has liquified on the plate.
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