So yesterday while I was minding my own business, just sweeping off my patio, a bee stings me on the toe. My second to last toe. A toe you don’t even think about, until something happens to it. Apparently, these busy little bees decided to make their busy little nest right under the siding of my house. As I was sweeping the leaves and funk away from that crack between siding and concrete, I must have disturbed the little darlings. I did see something fly up as I brushed past there but thought it was flies, gnats or some other kind of annoying insects, but bees never crossed my mind. I felt the searing, burning fire of the sting and immediately spotted the bee on my toe. My poor, defenseless, useless toe. I swatted it away and it left it’s stinger and guts behind as a gift. As I reached down to pull out the stinger, it did, gleefully/cruelly cross my mind that the idiot died defending it’s nest against nothing but a sweeping broom. It’s mind-blowing how much a little beesting can hurt. Kinda like stubbing your toe. It takes a minute, then POW, the you-want-your mommy kind of pain sets in. After applying ice and some home remedy (meat tenderizer made into a paste) it faded into a dull throb. I tried to garner some sympathy from my group of men. The little boys were the most concerned, if you can call it that. M looked, interestedly at the hole in my toe left from the stinger. B actually replaced the ice pack once, after he, of course, knocked it off. N didn’t seem affected by my misery, he listened to me whine for a minute, then started in on a story about basketball shoes that he wants. Ahhh, sweet, sweet sixteen. That brings us to my honey, the love of my life, my hubby. His response was, with a shake of his head, “If you’re gonna do work outside you should wear shoes and socks.” Thanks, babe. Just what I needed. Hardheaded, sensible advice. I did what any grown woman would do then…I called my mommy.
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