By Kelly Baughman

Summertime makes us all want to get outside and do fun things. Yard work is not one of those fun things. But low and behold….we all have to do it. This weekend, I reluctantly strapped on my rubber boots and gardening gloves and accompanied my fiancé to the jungle, aka our front yard, to tackle a much needed summer season clean up.
It was hot, and I was already cranky. I glanced to our next door neighbor’s perfectly manicured yard complete with gorgeous flowers, and noticed her (as usual) outside tending to her every bloom. I instantly felt her eyes burning a hole through me as if to say, “It’s about time you morons got out there to do something about that yard.” Shamed….I headed over to pull down the creeping vines that had attached themselves to the brick on the side of the house. (We were one step away from being the creepy house on the block that everyone thinks a witch lives in. But that may be about me…not the vines.)
About 30 seconds later, I channeled my inner Forest Gump when I felt like something jumped up and bit me in my rear end. I felt another sharp sting in my thigh seconds later. Still confused about what was happening, my fiancé Wesley began flailing his arms while screaming. It was then that I realized we were being swarmed by bees. Yellow-jackets to be exact.
In a panic, I ran down the hill of the yard still covered in the stinging jerks. It was then that it hit me that the bees were following me. I searched for Wesley, and saw that he was already in route up the hill, making a break for the pool to ward off the attack.
I wanted to be mad, thinking, “Did he really just leave me,” but the excruciating pain of the devil’s minions forced me to bolt for the top of the driveway mindlessly. That’s when I heard Wesley yell, “Run for the pool!”
Thanks, bro. Good looking out.
I was stripping my yellow-jacket covered clothes off one piece at a time while screaming, thrashing and trudging clumsily up the driveway in an attempt to save myself in the pool, when I caught a glimpse of the neighbor staring with her mouth open while holding a garden hose in her hand as the water spilled aimlessly at her feet.
Take a picture, lady. It will last longer. The least she could have done was spray me down.
When I reached the pool area, I found Wesley still struggling to pull off his boots as the bees continued to nail him. I had no time for that, so I pushed him out of my way and launched myself into the pool, boots, gloves, and all. I did have a mental thought mid-air of whether or not my cell phone was in my pocket, but decided at that moment that it didn’t matter. Wesley splashed down seconds behind me, and we spent the next minute or so diving under the water, hoping that the bees would eventually tire and fly away.
When the attack was finally over, I burst out in hysterical laughter. “What are you laughing at,” he asked me. “You just left me,” I said through cackles. With a straight face he replied, “I’ve seen you run. I knew you would slow me down.” The fear that I was going to kill him melted from his face when he saw me doubled over again in stitches, and he joined me in sidesplitting laughter when I told him about the neighbor’s face.
His laughter quickly subsided when he asked, “Wait…aren’t you allergic to bees?” To which I replied, “Yeah. But I haven’t been stung since I was 9, so I don’t know. Do you grown out of these things?”
He scooped me up from the pool and said, “Get dressed. We are going to the emergency room.” But being the gambler that I am, I convinced him to wait it out and roll the dice. Stupid I know.
Fortunately, I didn’t die, although I don’t recommend that any of you take a chance like I did. To be honest, the season finale of Keeping Up with the Kardashians was coming on that night, and I wasn’t about to miss it sitting in an ER waiting room for hours.
However, we did spend the rest of our weekend slathered in Cortisone 10 and going in and out of Benadryl comas. To this day, every time I sit down on my behind, I’m convinced there’s still a stinger in there. But I dare not ask Wesley to inspect that area. After all, we’re not married yet….and thankfully there’s still some things that remain a mystery between us.
The moral of the story here is that chores like yard work can literally kill you. If it’s not the heat, it’s the bees. So do yourself a favor and stay safe this summer. Just call a yard guy and enjoy a day at the beach instead. Your rump will thank you.
Trust me.