This was written by Chris and originally posted on his old blog, Slapdash Guano (his new one, Throw The Flag, is all about sports if you're into that, he's like a football genius). As you read it, keep in mind, every word is true. He's such a wuss. Anyway, enjoy. I'll enjoy a little break, get my shit together and work on not being a basket case for next week.
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So I was downstairs doing laundry the other day, because I’m just that type of husband, when all of a sudden, I’m attacked by a bee! Apparently, there’s some sort of bee paradise in our house, because they swarm all around outside, convincing me every time that I decide to (or are told to, let's be honest) mow the lawn that they’re going to divebomb my face. In this instance, however, I discovered that our furry buzzing overlords had infiltrated our house. Needless to say, I was not impressed.
As I finished starting the laundry, I heard this loud buzzing noise coming from a pile of drop cloths that we have on a stand in the basement. I wasn’t concerned until my mind stumbled across a fact that I had thusfar managed to keep hidden from most people: I am deathly afraid of bees. Well, not bees specifically, just any flying agent of death. Bees, wasps, horseflies… I’ll even jump if a moth surprises me, thinking my glistening skull is a lightbulb instead of the sweat-drenched forehead of a pig sweat beast (more on how I sweat more than any human being who ever lived in a later post). Now, I’m not scared of moths at all, but if it buzzes past my face, I will scream like a little boy seeing Michael Jackson for the first time (or the last, for that matter).
Having a fear of bees, though, is not all that unreasonable. There are certain things in life that you’re SUPPOSED to be scared of, like sharks, lions, and Dick Cheney.
Dick Cheney's 9th Grade Yearbook Picture
Back to my current predicament. So on this fateful day, I heard the bee buzzing around my face and I hightailed it for upstairs. It can’t get me if I lock it downstairs, right? Maybe it will go back to where it came from. We can only hope. Unfortunately, however, not only was I wrong, but I also hadn’t finished the laundry. My wife was upstairs getting ready to go to Wal Mart or something stupid like that, and here I was, tapdancing in front of the door to the basement like a wee little girl. She came downstairs, asked what I was doing, and I think my response went something like “IT’SAFUCKINGBEE,OHMYGODIT’SAFUCKINGBEEINTHEBASEMENT,RUN,SAVEYOURSELF!”
At this point, the one who was not impressed was no longer me. My wife was, for some godforsaken reason, furious with me. I think it had something to do with me being the protector of the house, and how she felt like I wasn’t a man anymore because I was terrified of an insect, or something like that. I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening, I was too busy listening for the buzz of impending doom.
Anyway, I go outside to start the car, trying to put this harrowing experience behind me, when all of a sudden, I hear my wife call from the kitchen. Somehow, MacGuyver bee managed to crawl through the keyhole in the door and make its way into the kitchen.
Follow along with me: not only was I dealing with one of the scariest creatures to ever haunt mankind’s existence, but it was LEARNING! No shut door would keep this bastard down, he was out for blood! And probably my blood, specifically!
So it’s buzzing at the window across the kitchen, trying to get out to join its fuzzy friends, and my wife, who, I forgot to mention, is deathly allergic to bees (that might’ve been why she was mad at me too, I’m not sure), is yelling at me to kill it. Of course, this was my opportunity to redeem myself. So I took off off after it, lunged at the beast, and swatted it from midair, squeezing it in my fist in the world’s most manly bee massacre ever, saving my wife’s life and reclaiming my title as husband, protector, and king of my fucking castle, bitches.
Except… not really. I grabbed a spatula, and I headed towards the bee, very timid-like. And I mean VERY timid-like. I was shaking like Michael J. Fox eating Cheerios, and I was almost crying. We were both yelling at each other, my wife standing there calmly, insisting that I “grow a pair and kill the bee,” me screaming at her, in tears and rocking in the corner, telling her that “I’ve got a pair, I’m just fucking terrified!”
So after dancing around the kitchen every time the bee would move from its perch atop the window sill, I finally made my way towards the bee and, with one tremendous wallop, smacked it against the window sill and finally ended its torment of our domicile. Yeah, that really happened. As much as its not all that manly, I was quite proud of myself for finally facing my fears and overcoming my fear of bees.
Two things are wrong with that statement: first off, I might’ve been proud as hell. My wife? Not so proud. She gave me shit for a straight day and a half, constantly mocking me and calling into question my ability to pee standing up. As much as I was uber pissed at her, I can’t say as I really blame her. I weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of 18,000 times what that bee weighed, and I’m about twice as strong. And I quivered like a little girl…
The second thing that was wrong with the above statement? I’m still terrified of bees. Case in point: About a week later, my daughter is downstairs, doing laundry (who knew it was such a dangerous job), and she screams. Me, being the concerned father, rushed to the doorway, calling down “Are you alright?” Her teary, whimpered reply was “Yes, but there’s a bee down here with me!”
At which point, I slammed the door and locked it. I yelled through the keyhole, saying “Listen, it’s going to be ok! Can you crawl out of a window or something?”
After discovering that both windows were closed and that SHE’S A LITTLE FUCKING GIRL, I realized that I had to do something to save her. Being the greatest father in the world, I grabbed my spatula again, ran downstairs, and held off the ferocious bee attack and whisked my daughter to safety, wishing to God my wife could see me now.
Except… that’s not quite what happened. She was downstairs for approximately a half hour, me coaxing her up the stairs but trying not to let the bee inside, her crying every time it came close to her, my wife, who was waiting for me to pick her up from work, on the phone and telling me that she’s going to divorce me and marry someone who was much manlier than me, like Richard Simmons.
The caption says it all...
So finally, I decide what’s the best thing to do. I let the bee into the house (I know, terrifying), and I quickly rush my daughter upstairs. Before doing this, it might be worth noting, I made my son lock himself and our two small dogs into the bedroom. Hey, if you’re going to go hunting for the scourge of humanity, you might as well be as safe as possible, right?
I quickly grabbed the spatula, and after circling for a few minutes, smashed the bee against the very same window that one of his wooly brothers had previously met their maker.
As much as I’d like to say that the above wasn’t true, it totally was. I’d like to say I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m really not. Bees are fucking terrifying.
