Bee Wars

It all began with that stupid bee.  And the donuts.

I was carrying two dozen Krispy Kreme donuts into work when I felt something tapping me on the head.  I glanced to my right and found myself eye to eye with the biggest bee I had ever seen.  

The guy had an attitude, too, most likely exacerbated by an endless string of 100 degree days.

I picked up speed and caught up with one of my colleagues, who was also heading into work.  “Christine, did you see that bee?  Is he near me?” 

Christine, who obviously does not know how to react in a killer bee crisis, said, “He’s chasing you!  He’s right behind you!  Run!” 

I sped up. 

“He’s right on your heels!," she said excitedly. "He must want the donuts!"

I considered the situation.  What’s more dangerous?  A killer bee on my tail or facing a group of hangry analysts waiting in a conference room for donuts.

I did what any responsible leader would do.  I threw the donuts on the ground and ran for my life.

Then I hear Christine scream, “He doesn’t want the donuts!” 
 
“HE WANTS YOU.”

I picked up speed to the point that had the right people been around, I could have ended up the oldest member of the U.S. Olympic sprinting team.   

I slammed into the door, scanned my ID, squeezed inside, managing to escape the bee by the skin of my teeth.  The door behind me slammed shut.

Leaving a very angry bee staring me down from the other side of the locked door. 

Since the bee had no employee ID, he was getting nowhere.  He bitterly buzzed away. 

Now, having outrun a killer bee in 102 degree heat did not leave me unscathed.  Sweat ran down every inch of my body.  And apparently, into my shoes.

Christine rescued the donuts and the hungry analysts were fed.  My day returned to normal. Or so I thought.

It was after lunch when I noticed my feet.   My very stinky feet.  I could smell them from under my desk.  They were rank.

And they seemed to get be getting ranker by the minute.

I considered my options, which were limited.  I just had to make it through the rest of the day. I covered my feet with a blanket to minimize the smell.

Several hours later the smell was so bad I had to close my office door. I didn't word getting out about my hygiene issues.

I thought about that bee.  Sure I beat him to the door.  But what did that get me?  My feet smelled worse than a teenager's rollerblades after skating without socks in Florida.

Except then I realized that my feet were smelling less like feet and more like dumpster. 

Wait. One. Minute.

I did, in fact, have a mini dumpster beneath my desk.  That’s when I remembered that the cleaning staff empties office trash every other day.

And just how good that steamed cafeteria broccoli had looked the day before and how bad it tasted.  And how I threw it in my trash can.

Let’s just say it tasted way better than it smelled.

I took the trash can to the curb and by the next morning the smell was gone.

And as for that killer bee?   

The campus was too big for the both of us.  

Word is he headed east.  To Amazon.

 

The Nearly Perfect Babysitter

When we lived in Florida we had a fabulous 13-year old baby sitter who lived across the street from us. Emily was responsible, mature, and fun.  The girls adored her.

Emily was nearly perfect.

Her flaw? She liked to roller blade barefooted. In Florida.

We were on our way to Publix when Kimmy noticed Emily roller blading down the sidewalk. “Stop the car, Mom!” she ordered. “Emily can come with us!” Being the obedient parent that I am...er, was, I pulled over so Emily could join us on our shopping trip. 

Emily got in the back seat with Linda.

About 2 minutes later the most revolting, repugnant, odor wafted its way to the front seat.

“Oh my GOD! What is that?” I asked as the fumes engulfed me.

Linda started crying. “Emily took her skates off!” she wailed.

“Mom, roll down the windows…quick!!” Kimmy ordered.

I rolled down all 4 windows at once (which is difficult to do while driving with one hand and holding your nose closed with the other).

“Emily, honey, would you please stick your feet out the window!”  I begged. We aborted our shopping trip. Nobody was in the mood. I parked my car in the driveway for the next few days with the windows down. 

The smell was barely noticeable after about a week. 

(Note: It would be a lie to suggest that Emily's feet looked anything like this.  I've included this photo just for the shock value.)

I had a sort of P.T.S.S. flashback to that infamous Publix trip a couple days ago.  Dave had taken Kevin outside to pee.  Upon his return, Kevin didn’t smell quite as bad as Emily’s feet had 14 years earlier.

But it was pretty damn close.

The first thing I noticed was that Kevin’s neck looked dirty. I got closer and saw that it was covered in some kind of gray sludge...very foul smelling gray sludge.

“Dave, what the heck did Kevin get into?” I asked incredulously.

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Oblivious.

“You guys were outside for 2 minutes. How did you have time to go to the morgue?” Kevin smelled like he’d stuck his neck into the torso of a decaying corpse.

I began wretching.

"Or did he accidentally slip into a septic system?"

I threw Kevin in the sink and turned the nozzle up to fire hose pressure.  

We never could figure out what Kevin had gotten in to.  

Dave swears he barely ventured off the front sidewalk.  

If I didn't know better, I'd suspect that Kevin had encountered one of Emily's old roller blades.

Nah.  He couldn't have.

He smelled way better than that.