At any time in my life prior to 7.5 years ago, if I had come across a bee in the house, I’d have locked myself in another room until someone could dispose of it. If that meant confining myself to the upstairs and letting the bee have the run of the kitchen, dining room and living room until Neil came home, well, that’s the way it would have to be.
Somewhere along the line, I had to grow up. It happened when I became a mother. I realized that I couldn’t teach these little people to be afraid of bees (they’d have to come into that on their own [and they have – makes a mom proud]). So, now when a bee enters my home, I calmly take of my flip-flop and thwak the evil beast to death. Heh.
Bees had been getting into the house a couple at a time for the last few weeks, and on Saturday Neil discovered why: there was a nest somewhere behind the shingles of the house near the kitchen window. I got the exterminator out here pronto, and he dosed those bad boys up with something guaranteed to knock their socks off. He said they’d probably still be flying around for a day or so, but then they’d be good & dead.
In what must have been a mass exodus, many panic-stricken refugees have been seeking shelter in our kitchen and downstairs bathroom all day. My flip-flop has seen a lot of action today – I’ve killed at least 40 of them myself, and Neil has flip-flopped a few and sucked up a bunch with the vacuum. Mmmm. Tasty.
Anyone have any good bee recipes?
“And then we all went outside, and threw wet sponges at each other before bed. The end.”