This is one of those embarrassing stories. Who am I kidding? Most of my stories are embarrassing to myself, so why stop now?
Way back when I didn’t have gray hair and still had six-pack abs, I was driving toward work during an August summer day. Although it was hot and humid outside, I drove with the windows rolled down because I knew I was going to be confined to air conditioning the entire day, and I hated that idea.
I’m one of those women who would prefer to go bra-less if given the opportunity. If I ever had the chance to be reincarnated, I would be a dog. I would relish having the wind whipping through my hair, sticking my head out of my owner’s car window. I wouldn’t care about gnarly knots because my owner would have to brush them out, not me.
As all of the windows were rolled down, I crawled to a stop at a light. As I waited at the light, a big yellow jacket decided to enter my driver’s side pinging me in the face. There wasn’t a sting, but now he was in the car. I don’t know if you have ever noticed that right around August, bees tend to fly like they’ve been drinking. They’ll run head first into your forehead, hit the ground and fly away. It’s like they turn into terrorists with a bomb strapped to their bodies. They just fly right into you, hoping to kill themselves or inflict pain on your person. I’m no bee expert, but it happens every. single year.
Also, If you aren’t aware, I don’t like spiders either. I become a karate master when walking through a web, and I swear on my mother’s grave that when I killed a spider one time in my bedroom, his friends witnessed the murder. That night, I must have gotten five spider bites extending from my neck down to the knuckles.
It was payback from either his friends or his wife. Frankly, I think he was in a gang which would explain all the bites I received. They were like bullet wounds. Spider bites last for weeks; at least for me they do.
Anyway, back to the bee story…
So, this drunken, terrorist bee is buzzing around inside my car. I’m positive he’s not happy about it either because he started hitting the ceiling, rammed himself into the windshield a few times, knocking himself down on the dashboard, but got right back up again. He was the prize-fighter of all yellow jackets– like Mohammed Ali–floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee–or at least trying to after a few shots of tequila.
Mind you, I’m still at the red light. I’m waving at this thing trying to get it out of the car and it came a little too close to my ear (this was when I could still hear). My reaction to this was stepping on the gas.
I gunned it and rear-ended the woman in front of me. I couldn’t contain my panic about a yellow jacket the size of a silver dollar buzzing a little too close to my ear.
I put my car in park and got out to check the damage. I just had a bent license plate. She, on the other hand, had the entire back fender folded in. I was thinking her car had to have been made of cardboard. The dent was so–big.
I was waiting for her to get out of her car, but she just sat there. When I approached her, she was crying.
Shit. I made her cry?
I can imagine getting a jolt from behind unexpectedly like that would be a shock, but I didn’t expect to encounter her crying. At least she wasn’t screaming at me. If she was, it wouldn’t be a good outcome; someone would have a fat lip besides a bent fender.
I would be in jail on assault charges. I know I would never get released due to “good behavior.”
A police officer came by and took the report. I explained my issue with the bee. He wanted me to get into his squad car. Really? I’m considered a flight risk now?
I step into his squad car. It was like an air traffic control tower, but it only had four seats and was on wheels.We sat there while he checked my record to make sure I didn’t have any other violations. I’m glad the issue of murdering the spider didn’t come up on his computer, or else he probably would have started interrogating me about hate crimes against insects.
I explained to him what happened in only the way I could; with my hands and my loud mouth. Italians use their hands like a second language. I’m waving my hands around not intentionally being animated; that’s just how I talk. I hit his radio by mistake.
He actually started laughing. He told me to try to control my hand gestures and just verbally explain what happened. I don’t think he understood what he was asking. For an Italian to not convey their thoughts and feelings verbally without using their hands, is like taking away our first amendment right to free speech. However, I did my best by sitting on my hands and then walked out of the squad car with a ticket.
I apologized profusely to the woman who I rear-ended with my car. It was the bee’s fault.
When I got back into my car, I looked for the damn bee who I wanted to smash with my shoe, or wedge it in between the windshield and the dashboard making him suffer a slow death.
He was gone. He was the flight risk.