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.

 

Blog Envy

Blog envy has once again reared its ugly head.

With Linda gone from the house my blog ideas have dried up.  Like a raisin. 

Linda was my treasure-trove.

It was almost like cheating. A humor writer with a daughter like Linda has an unfair advantage. 

Now she’s gone off to the Marines.  Leaving me blog-topic-less.

It’s depressing.

It used to be so easy.  All I had to do was wait.  And watch.

In the meantime, blog topics seem to surround my friends like ants at a picnic. 

One of my friends (let’s call her “Esmeralda”) just returned from a visit to her parents, where her sisters and brothers and their scores of children congregated. 

Well, it turns out that poor, unsuspecting, Esmeralda and her husband were exposed to head lice, introduced to the close nit family (sorry, I couldn’t resist) by one of her nieces. 

“No fair!” I said. 

“What?” asked Esmeralda.

“Blog envy.”  But I realized that I was being selfish and let her tell the rest of her story.

Apparently, Esmeralda went to CVS to purchase some head lice remover, and was very relieved to discover that, although the store was bustling with activity, no one was in line.  

When she got to the cash register the clerk picked up the box, looked at Esmeralda and loudly announced, “Oh, my daughter had head lice last year and she has hair exactly like yours.  It was really hard to get rid of those buggers.”
 
Esmeralda, who was trying to get out of the store as quickly and anonymously as possible, didn’t respond.

(I groaned with envy at this point in her story.)

"You have exactly the same hair color and texture as my daughter," the clerk bellowed.

"Those head lice are going to be really hard to get rid of.”

“That is so funny!” I whined.  And I actually heard myself saying, “Why can’t I get head lice?”
 
Of course Esmeralda never had head lice and the treatment was just a precaution.

And I’m ashamed of myself for my blog envy.

To add insult to injury, blog envy hit even closer to home this morning when Dave said to me, “I can’t believe that at 62 years of age I’m still learning things.”
 
“What?” I asked.

“If you get toothpaste in your eye it hurts.”

Damn him.

The Burrito

As I watched Linda pack for Marine Combat training I wondered,  "Who is this confident young woman and what did the Marines do with my Linda?"

Since she’d returned from Boot Camp nine days earlier I noticed a LOT of changes, the most endearing of which was a preference for hanging around the family vs. going out with friends.

But the biggest metamorphosis?  Her packing skills.

This is how Civilian Linda would pack a suitcase.

Civilian Linda would throw loose items of clothing into a suitcase when packing for a trip.  Actually, into multiple suitcases.  She would pack 4 times as many things as she’d need because "it was faster that way."

As I watched Marine Linda pack up her gear for Combat Training my jaw dropped.

I watched in awe as she rolled her clothes into burritos.  She would start by placing underwear, a sports bra, socks and shorts on top of her t-shirt.   

Then she’d fold the sides of the t-shirt over top of the stuff and roll it tightly starting at the top of the t-shirt.   When she got to the bottom, she'd magically pulled out the end of the t-shirt to hold the burrito in place.

It was magic.

The nerd inside of me had never been prouder.

Then she asked me for a ruler.

“You want a ruler?”  I said, barely able to hide my excitement.

“Never mind,” she said.  My disappointment was short-lived as she reached for her own ruler.  She had her own ruler.

It should be noted that I couldn’t get Civilian Linda to use a ruler when she was doing algebra homework.  She’d freehand the X and Y axes. 

Oh how I tried to convince her that it would be SO MUCH EASIER to plot the line y=mx+b if she used a ruler.  

Now she had her own ruler. 

Marine Linda used her ruler to position the insignia on the front of her uniform.

(Civilian Linda may not have noticed if her t-shirt was on backwards.) 

I have to confess that Marine Linda made quite an impact on me.  

I was headed out for a walk with Becca at Harbison Lake.  But you never know when disaster might strike and a walk at Harbison Lake could turn into an overnight camping trip.

To that end, I created my own emergency burrito pack. But keeping in mind the imptorance of hydration, I made an adjustment.  

I'm sure Marine Linda would be very proud.

Going Downhill Fast

Ladies.  Can we talk?

About a very annoying addition to the growing list of ways my body is falling apart changing as I age.

It’s called under-boob sweat.  Exacerbated by the endless string of 100+ degree days we have been enjoying in South Carolina.

Under-boob-sweat is new to me. 

And depressing.  My boobs used to be perky.  The never RESTED ON MY TORSO.

You know that old pencil trick?  Not that long ago I could place a pencil under my boobs and it would fall flat to the floor.

No longer true. 

In fact, who needs a pocket protector with these girls?  

They could hold multiple pencils and pens.

Even a curling iron.

Of course, I would never attempt such a trick, since all would be covered in sweat.  Within 10 minutes. 

My curling iron would be ruined.

I researched solutions to my condition and found that I am not alone in my suffering.  In fact, I was pleased to learn that there is a product available to help women suffering from under-boob-sweat: boob deodorant.

I ordered a tube of Fresh Body boob deodorant on Amazon.com.  It will arrive on Monday, which means only two more days of sweaty boobs.  

Then I started thinking.  What's next?  I have barely recovered from hot flashes.  Now I've got under-boob-sweat.

What if my next big thing is elbow-pit-sweat?  I've recently noticed the insides of my arms getting moist when I step foot outdoors in this sauna of a state we call South Carolina.  What if my elbow-pit sweating gets worse?

I can't stress about it.  I guess if they sell under-boob deodorant, they probably sell elbow-pit deodorant.

I'll worry about elbow-pit-sweat if and when it becomes a problem for me.

When I placed the under-boob deodorant in my shopping cart, Amazon suggested that I also consider purchasing Lady Anti-Monkey Butt Anti-Friction Powder.

OMG.  Is that what’s next? 

I don't care if there is a product available.

Monkey Butt will push me over the edge.  

I'll take under-boob sweat any day.

Sour Toes

It really wasn’t the most appropriate breakfast conversation on the cruise.  But it was fascinating.

The woman at the end of our table – let’s call her “Celeste” was talking animatedly.  Was I hearing correctly?  

An amputated toe?  In a drink?  

She called it the Sourtoe Cocktail.

Although I hated to call attention to my eves dropping, I had to ask. 

Excuse me,” I said.  “Did you say that you drank a cocktail containing an amputated toe?”

“Uh-huh” said Celeste.  “They serve it at a bar called The Downtown Hotel in the Yukon."

“A human toe?” I asked, as if the toe of an orangutan would be any better.

“Oh, yeah,” she replied.

Then she added, "And if you drink the whole drink you get a certificate.  But the toe has to touch your lips."

 

I  gagged.

I mean, it’s one thing if you were enjoying an adult beverage in your back yard. And someone chopping wood while barefoot accidentally chopped off his toe sending it reeling through the air, landing in your drink.  And you took a sip without realizing it was there.

But these people Do. It. On. Purpose.  

 “And you paid for this drink?” I asked. 

“It was a deal!” bragged Celeste.  “Just ten bucks.”

I wish she had stopped there.

“But if you swallow the toe they charge more.”

I looked down at my breakfast sausages.  They were beginning to lose their appeal.

“Does that ever happen?”  I asked, aghast.

Celeste informed me that it has happened more than once.  The fine used to be $500 until somebody SWALLOWED IT ON PURPOSE.  Now the fine is $2,500.

Guess swallowing a toe was on someone’s bucket list.  Somewhere between getting his eyeballs poked out by ravens and watching Donald Trump pole dance in a thong.

Celeste told me that The Downtown Hotel keeps a “back up toe” for these occasions.  Over the years they have received nine donor toes.   One was delivered in a jar of alcohol with the message, “Don’t wear open-toe sandals while mowing the lawn.”

At this point I decided I was done eating and placed my napkin atop my partially eaten sausages.

As you might expect, amputated toes are hard to come by and after the most recent accidental toe consumption, the Downtown Hotel placed the following newspaper ad:

Wait. One. Minute.

This ad is lacking specificity.  There is no mention of which toe would qualify.  

I would assume that the big toe would be preferred, as that would minimize the chances of swallowing said toe.  But it also seems to me that the market potential for amputated toes would be significantly larger (by a factor of 5) if they broadened the target market.

I had to ask.

 
(Adam hasn't responded to my email yet.)

I had a flashback.  

When Linda was a baby she had a hair tourniquet around her "tall man" toe from strings hidden deep within her footie pajamas.  It took a trip to the doctor to figure out why she WOULD NOT STOP CRYING. 

I nearly had an donor toe.

Oh, well.  It's irrelevant.  She kept her toe.  And if she hadn't the doctor probably would have kept it.

But I did keep some baby teeth.  And hair from her first haircut.

Which gives me a scathingly brilliant idea.