First of all, a word about the bees. After my last post, I crawled into bed, pulled the covers up to my ears and went to sleep. I woke up about an hour later with HF tucking the blankets around me and and whispering, “There are no bees, shhh, go back to sleep.”
I drifted off to sleep thinking- my hero! and snoozed happily for another half an hour.
When I properly woke up, around Asr time, HF and Khalid were both still asleep, so I figured I’d get up and go on a tour of my now bee-free house. In the living room, there were two dead bees on the window sill, and in the kitchen, around six or seven. I was a bit surprised, since when I went to sleep I really, literally had dozens and dozens of bees, and the idea that only a handful had fallen in HF’s anti-bee offensive seemed a little odd, but I was happy to have such a minor clean-up job.
Now, imagine my surprise when HF woke up and clarified that his statement of “There are no bees,” did not actually mean “There are no longer any bees because I, your brave and wonderful husband, have killed them all. Sirrah.” It actually meant “There aren’t any bees there. Because I can’t find any, my adorably kooky wife. “
For two days HF teased me about InvisiBees. And then I found one last dead bee in the living room and I saved it for him and showed it to him, but it hasn’t made much of a difference- he thinks it’s the funniest thing ever, and I have to admit- it’s seems ridiculous to have an invasion of bees, call for reinforcements, and then suddenly not have an invasion anymore. Where did they all go? Why did they up and leave? And why did they leave a whole bunch of dead bees behind? Political infighting? Bee gang violence?
It doesn’t end there. Yesterday, my purse was full of ants. Hundreds of ants. And I wore said purse, and said ants, to the car, and when I put my purse down on the seat, it rained ants. And there were ants in my clothes, and ants in my wallet, and ants other places where one never, ever wants ants (like in one’s chewing gum).
I gracefully and calmly exited the car (hooray for artistic license), threw my purse on the floor, shook off my clothes and raged at the ants for a while. Then I picked my purse up with the two smallest parts of two of my bravest fingers, and shook it out onto the floor- money, pretzel sticks, gum, phone, wallet… everything crawling with ants whose take on the entire eviction seemed to be “RUN FOR IT!”
I shook off the few items I considered essential (I had been on my way to pick up HF from work, and was already running late) cash, phone, keys- and took my indignant self and all of my heebie-jeebies back to the car, where we swatted ants off the seats and floor mats for a while before heading off, 20 minutes late.
Half-way home again, after I had already narrated my misadventures, complete with dramatic reenactment and insistence on a new purse (and a new car, and maybe a new house), the ants that had started out on the floor had made it to the ceiling, and two of them dropped onto HF while one of them plodded admirably along, upside down towards the windshield.
The good news is, HF believed me.
The bad news is, we seem to have an ant problem.
The conciliatory news is, I get a new purse.
By Abez. The End.