First I must apologize to the zucchini lovers of the world. I was not aware a vegetable could inspire such devotion. Please know that I meant no offense. Oh and…
How could my sister not know where I live? Easy. I’m surprised she knows I’m still alive. We are not close. We don’t even pretend to be. We just don’t have a thing in the world to say to one another.
She was the perfect natural child, I was the infertility cure that became obsolete. I do have to give her credit for recognizing that from the get go. I didn’t catch on, not really, until much later. She has pretty much lived her life as if I didn’t exist. If you count me, she was the middle child. She never really believed that, and she was right. She was my parents oldest child. That’s alright with me, especially since she was so good at it most people actually think she’s older than me. Heck, I tell people she’s older.
Papa2Hapa, this explains the whole yard of the week affair. Trust me, I was as surprised as anyone else.
Now about the bees.
Remember that scene in the Amityville horror and the whole bee thing?
Yeah, that can really happen. I got a call from my husband Monday saying that there were some bees in the bathroom. I didn’t understand how many bees were in the bathroom. He said he got them out. I didn’t worry about it.
I came home yesterday afternoon and went upstairs and heard this buzzing. There were a whole lot of bees in the bathroom. A whole lot of bees.
I like bees. I’ve even considered keeping bees. But I really don’t want them in my bathroom. So I did the only thing a small town person knows to do when presented with a wildlife threat, I called the extension office. They gave me a phone number for a person who was supposed to come get bees and take them with him. That sounded great. I didn’t want to hurt the bees, I just wanted them somewhere else.
It was almost time for Mr. Pray to come home, so I thought I’d let him speak with the beekeeper. It seemed like a man thing to me, and that it might be best handled man to man.
When Mr. Pray came home, I informed him that we had a bee problem. He had to investigate and quickly confirmed we did have a bee problem. I gave him the beekeepers number. He called.
At first I could tell that the beekeeper was excited about our bees. That was good. Mr. Pray explained, in detail, where the bees were, how many bees seemed to be there, how active the bees were.
Then I could tell that something changed. The conversation ended very quickly. Turns out that the beekeeper was an exterminator. He just wanted to kill the bees. We didn’t want to do that.
So we turned to the only other source we could think of, the Internet. Turns out that bees don’t like moth balls. Good old mothballs. Living in the wilds of the edge of town, we knew that many creatures don’t like mothballs. Bats don’t like mothballs, badgers don’t like mothballs, and raccoons are annoyed, but not fully deterred by mothballs. We know this from personal experience. all we needed was a knee high hanging near the bees’ point of entry to make this plan work.
Mr. Pray asked me for an old knee high. I hadn’t worn a knee high stocking for at least twenty years and knew it was highly unlike that any survived even in my disorganized dressing room. I looked anyway, no dice. I headed to the dollar store, no luck there either. The big discount store by the Hy-Vee did have some, the package was rather dusty, but I figured they would be good enough for mothballs.
I returned home with the knee high, and David broke out the supply of mothballs from the garage. We always keep them handy. He went up to hang the mothball bomb from the bathroom window. I headed on the patio below, cell phone in hand, for a good view, in case if incident. All went smoothly.
Mr. Pray reported moments ago that we seem to be bee free. I hope they find a good home.