Scene 1

It's a quiet fall day. The air is warm with a little crispness to it. The only sounds are the twittering of birds, the clanking of the flagpole across the street, and the occasional rumble of a passing car.

I'm at my post, doing the daily report and getting the day's bank deposit ready, when I see something out of the corner of my eye. I glance over. It's coming right for me. I duck and squeal, heart pounding, and dive out of my booth while fumbling for the swatter.

I whirl around, my palms slick with sweat, the yellowish blur swooping down on me with malice in its heart. I flail the swatter wildly while backing away, my heart in my throat. I miss.

"Shit," I mutter as it zooms away and disappears from view. I return to my booth and begin to hang the swatter back up when I hear it next to my ear.  Zzzzzzzz.

"Aaaah!" I exclaim, running around to the front of the counter. I grab the can of starting fluid that sits there and spray it directly at my foe.

"Haha, sucker!" I yell gleefully as it drops, frozen, to the floor.

B - 1

Bees - 0

Scene 2

I'm sorting through returnable bottles and cans, getting my groove on. As my hand closes around a sticky Four Loko can, a yellowjacket brushes my thumb. I scream and throw it across the stockroom. It is sluggish from the cool air in the stockroom, and its friend decides to join him in investigating the cause of the disturbance, via an aerial assault of my head.

I grab a nearby plastic bag and flap it viciously at them, not noticing the pallet behind me. I trip over it and land on my ass.

Bees - .5

B - 1

As I groan and return to my feet, I can see that those sent from Satan are on the floor, enjoying the sticky puddle that came out of the can I threw. With a mighty "Yaaaah!" I stomp on both of them and perform a victory dance that, thankfully, cannot be seen by anyone I know.

B - 3

Bees - .5

I believe I have just discovered that there is one good thing about the horror that is winter in Michigan. No bees. I'll take the salt that ruins my car. I'll take the snow. I'll wear three sweaters and two pairs of socks. Just please, please keep the bees away.

I remember last summer when we first met. You sneakily gave us the cute doggy routine and made me love you. You happily retrieved toys and thrown balls endlessly, and assimilated yourself into the family effortlessly.

Not long after your arrival, we began to suspect that you misled us about your intelligence and good breeding. Maybe it was those times when you chased a laser pointer for an hour and drooled so much on the carpet that I had to put down towels so people wouldn't slip and fall on the drool. Perhaps it was that for hours after the laser pointer was put away, you still kept looking for it. It may have been all those holes you dug in the yard to try and escape to China, holes that you dug so often, the black wore off your snout and we began to call you eraser nose instead of Allie.

The love began to fade when you wouldn't stop barking. You'd bark at anyone and anything no matter what the time. I hated you for that. The final straw was when you decided that you'd forgotten that the living room rug was not for urinating, and you forgot how to go to the door and ask to be let out to pee.

So, goodbye, yellow dog. I don't miss you at all.

Ah, the end of spring, soon to be the summer season. A lovely Memorial Day looked forward to by a boy who is eager to spend the day with his dad.

One thing I've learned as a parent is that parents should never promise things to their kids that they don't intend to follow through with, because kids' memories when it comes to things promised are almost perfect.

How disappointing it is, then, when a 6-year-old boy who has been bouncing around all day in anticipation of his father's arrival has his hopes dashed when his father doesn't bother showing up after promising to get him to spend a fun day together. How heartbreaking to have to answer the question, yet again, "Why did Dad lie to me, Mom?" and have to offer explanations like 'maybe his car died' or 'maybe his phone is out of minutes' or 'maybe he forgot' to try and assuage his disappointment and make him cheerful again.

I guess a parent can hope that, in spite of hearing her little one cry himself to sleep, his day tomorrow will be much brighter and he'll forget about the broken promises instead of saving them up in his memory to resent later in life.

A parent can certainly hope.


In short -

Bob, you're a dick and I hate you.

This is what happens when you combine a small, tired child and a twisted sense of humor.

I've come to the conclusion that we're just not right... but, damn, do we have fun.

What is it about that first haircut that suddenly turns a baby into a little kid? Not that he's not adorable, but how did my one-year-old suddenly start looking like a toddler instead of a baby?

Oh, right. That was when his mother ("his mother" being me) tired of his weird, flyaway locks and hacked off all his hair with the electric clippers. What is wrong with me?