stinger_03I was having an unpleasant dream Monday morning, around 6:00 am, that I had hired two hitmen to take out Perez Hilton.  By the time I met them at a bar to discuss the hit, I had changed my mind and wanted to put an end to the whole thing.  However, the hitmen had other ideas and were thinking of progressing with the plan even without being paid, and the whole thing was spiraling out of control and I was feeling desperate and a little confused, as one of the hitmen was rather attractive.  While I couldn’t classify it as a nightmare, it was upsetting.  I didn’t really want anyone to die!  But I had set these events in motion and now I couldn’t stop them!  That sexy hitman had his hand on my ass!  It felt kind of good!  Oh, HUMANITY!   

Then I woke up, conscious of an intermittent hum in the room, and a hard metallic clacking.  With my brain still fogged with the dream, it took me a moment to identify the source of the annoyance.  Yes, it was an insect, slamming its body against my window and blinds and emitting an angry buzz – and from the sounds of things, it was an insect the size of a remote-controlled helicopter.   

Sad to say, but this is one of the worst (everyday-type) things that can happen to me, to be at home alone and have to tackle a buzzing bug.  This is one of my biggest phobias – flying, stinging insects send me into a helpless panic attack.  Even disoriented, with sleepy eyes, I could see that The Thing was over an inch long, and fat, like it had been suckling the blood of newborns for days.  Silhouetted on the blinds by the dawn sun, it looked malevolent, pestilent, EVIL.  I could see it rubbing its legs together and generally being terrifying, and every few seconds it would BZZZZZZZZZ and I would squeal in horror.  Basically, it was Satan.  

Feeling sick and shaky, I went into the kitchen and swiped an empty jar from the drying rack (maybe The Thing could be lured by the lingering traces of sliced jalapenos!), and a magazine.  All I wanted was The Thing out of my house.  I edged back into the bedroom, armed with my weapons, and approached in a shufflestep.  Ideally, I would open the window and The Thing could continue merrily on its malignant way to inflict terror elsewhere, but it wouldn’t leave the window so that I could open the blinds.   

“Okay,” I psyched myself up.  “You’re going to just step over there, and ease it into the jar.  Then you’re going to slam the lid on quick as you can.  It’s more scared of you than you are of it.”  (This last point was absolutely not true).  I took a tentative step closer – BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ, it went, and flew a half foot in my direction.  “EEEEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”  I shrieked, and retreated, whimpering.  (Side note:  Yes, I actually screamed.  I hope I am never attacked by a human in my apartment, because apparently no one is coming to save my ass).  

I picked up the magazine – not an optimum choice either.  The Thing was perched on the blinds, which were hanging a good three inches from the window pane itself, so I might not kill it right away.  I could just clip it, and then if would be even angrier.  Then it would try to kill me.   

I actually considered waking up my burly next-door neighbor to come save me, but it was 6:18 in the morning and I knew he’d never serve me free drinks at his bar again.  I know that it was then 6:18, because I had stood there with my heart slamming into my breastbone for fifteen minutes, trying to control my breathing and stifling the urge to cry.  “It’s just a horrible, stinging mutant-fly Thing that wants to harpoon you, no need to overreact,” I would think, hysterically.  STAY CALM, EVERYTHING IS FINE OMG I DON’T WANNA DIE.  As much as I tried to will myself into action, I couldn’t move, but only watched The Thing in abject fear, as it rubbed its little legs together and made that awful, noisy buzzing.

  Suddenly, after 20 minutes of agonizing indecision, it dropped to the floor.  This was my chance!  It was against a solid surface!  I raised the jar to trap it, my hand held high.  BZZZZ, it went, laughing at me.  I flung the jar atop the bed in favor of my Women’s College Alumnae Quarterly Magazine (HEAR ME ROAR, MOTHERFUCKER), pulled my arm back like I was throwing a fast pitch, and I whacked the shit out of The Thing at about 90 mph, WHAM.  Barely dazed, it buzzed and flew a foot across the floor.  I whacked it again, and then a third time, quick as a flash, now like a boxer throwing fast jabs.  Yeah, I felt like a beast, but I was pissed off and scared, and really, really irritated that even though I had planned to sleep until 7:15, there was no way I was going to doze back off after all this excitement.  

Trembling with adrenaline, I peered more closely at The Thing.  It was lying under my make-up table, suddenly harmless.  It was curled in on itself, clearly dead.  I allowed a shuddery breath.  Bzzzz, weakly – THWAK!  Okay, now it was dead.  I gingerly scooped it into the jar, sealed the lid, and took it into the kitchen to examine it.  The Thing could now be identified as a bumblebee.  Granted, it was still a massive bee, but I felt kind of bad.  Its little furry behind actually looked kind of cute, now that it was dead, I thought, before shaking my head to clear it of such treacherous notions – that’s what they want you to think.  I spent the next ten minutes checking every window in the apartment trying to figure out how my security was breached by the intruder.  No more carefree Spring breezes for me – this flat is an airfree sweatbox from now on. 

When I related my tale to a couple of colleagues, the reactions I got were: “Aw, poor little bee” and, “You know honeybees are, like, endangered, right?”  To this I say:  Fools – you know nothing of terror.