A Tale of Two Bees

This week has not gone according to plan. I mean, weeks rarely go according to plan. But they rarely go this far from the plan. It was a rough one, to say the least. Between our little lamb passing, Andy puking his guts out for 24 hours straight, and me deciding it would be a great idea to check on the bees without smoking them…let’s just say I’ve had better weeks. But, I’ve also had worse. So I’m trying not to complain. Such is life, and such is life on the farm. So now, because we all need a laugh, I’ll tell a very self-depreciating story about how two bees flew into my bee suit and stung me. Ok? Ok. Get your laugh pants on.

Yes, those exist. Google it. Or don’t. Actually really don’t, ok? Just forget I said that. K-thanks. 

Oh, and next week I will have legitimate content for you on installing your bees. Promise, cross my heart. It’s coming. But, this week…we already talked about it.

Yesterday I realized that in the craziness of the week, we had not yet taken the queen cage out of our hive. I had checked on the bees to make sure they had food and then again because our neighbors found a swarm and I wanted to be sure they weren’t ours {the swarm was HUGE}. So I wasn’t totally 100%  neglectful. Only like 80% neglectful.

So, after a long night and day of taking care of sick husband and cute baby {sick husband is also cute} and working on this job and real job, it was almost dark and I thought I better go get that queen cage. In my tiredness, I couldn’t find the lighter I like to use {the one I found burns my finger because I suck at using lighters} so I decided to forgo the whole finding wood scraps and lighting them and smoking the bees. Because it’s not like we live on a farm with wood literally everywhere and straw that lights like a wick. Oh wait, that is where we live.

Good job, Alli. Strike #1.

So, out I went. I donned my bee suit, which ironically come in “one size fits all” and is basically 4 sizes too big. And, in my very clear-headed state, I pulled it down over my butt down to my thighs, thinking that was a brilliant idea because then my waistline and pockets would be covered.

What? Pockets? Bees sure love pockets, Alli. Way to plan ahead! Strike #2.

As I loosened the top cover I realized that the bees had started building up comb where they weren’t supposed to in the top of the hive {we haven’t found/looked for a feeder that is the right size yet so we have an extra super on there to give it enough space}. I bravely brushed the bees away and began removing the unnecessary comb. Which made the bees really, really angry. I took a step back to let them calm down and then attempted to remove the top super so that I could lift out the frame that had the queen cage on it and get the cage.

And that’s when I got stung. On my arm. I’ve been stung before, but it’s been a while. Because normally the bees aren’t that mad. Because normally you do it the right way and smoke them. Trying to ignore the stinging, I gave one more futile attempt to get the cage out before realizing that the bee flying around in my face was on the inside of my suit. Remember my brilliant idea to pull my suit down to my thighs? Yeah, well that creates a gap of coverage. Enter: bees in my suit.

I’m out. Strike #3.

Some cuss words may have been uttered. Or actually probably most likely definitely shouted. I hastily put the hive back together {sorry dead bees} and tried to quickly/calmly walk away from the hive and unzip my hood to let the bee out. Except that my stupid gloves are also 4 sizes too big and because the suit is so big the zipper is literally almost on the back of my head. Plus my arm was STINGING. In case you wondered, they are called bee stings for a reason. Those little suckers pack a punch!

All the calm went to, well, more swear words, and I just wanted to get out of there. I was trying to jump the electric fence netting {4 ft tall, I’m 5 ft 4in – you do the math} and rip off my bee suit at the same time and decide where the bee was and run far away. It was almost as graceful as that one time I had a baby.

Almost. But I don’t think we are ever going to top that experience. {I have to stop myself from compulsively apologizing to my OBGYN every time I see him.}

At this point I’m trying not to cry because I’m a frustrated cryer {which is SO frustrating, in case you wondered} and it’s just been a tough week and I’m really tired and gosh dang it my arm HURTS!

So I walked into the house and shouted at Andy {who is still sick at this point, by the way, awesome wife award right here baby!} to check me to make sure there aren’t anymore bees on me. He grumpily assures me that there aren’t so I sit down at the table to knock out a little more work for the real job.

And then I hear buzzing.

But I think I’m just being paranoid.

And then I look down, because I really  hear buzzing.

And there is a bee on my shirt. Which, at this point, is totally not being aggressive it’s just as confused as I am. But in my angry, frustrated, tried state I burst into tears, run outside and get the poor little bee off of me.

And then yell/cry at Andy for not seeing the bee – which was probably in my hair and impossible to see {I was awarded two awesome-wife trophies last night} and vowed I would always smoke the bees from that day forth.

Looking back, using the lighter that burns my finger would have been a good trade-off.

The End.

Love, Alli the NOT Bee Whisperer