Plan Bee

Hello Blog readers.  As I examine the events of this past week I can't help but wonder how I have survived it all. 

It began last Sunday night.  Our seemingly endless chores were done and the only thing left on my list, now that it was way past the bee's bed time, was to go out and spray some Bee-B-Gone in through their vestibule and hope that it would drift down their hallways and into their bedrooms and up into their little bee noses.

Unbeknownst to me there were several guards stationed as lookouts, as these late-night raids had apparently annoyed the Queen.  Once I got close to their front door I found myself being dive-bombed, shot at and hit.

I took a sharp stinger in the neck, then one on my ear and a third on the back of my hand.  These were not warning shots.  They meant business, and I had been identified as the enemy.

I dropped the can of Bee-B-Gone and made a dash for freedom into the darkness towards the end of the driveway.  It must have been the pain from being stung that caused me to forget about how the road construction had left the transition from driveway to road quite uneven. 

As I ran, my left foot slammed into the edge of the curb and down I went.  I flipped over and lay sprawled out on the fresh asphalt and gravel mixture.  Now on top of the pain of being sting I had some very damaged body parts, not to mention a little road-rash.

Having been outside longer than usual Claudia flipped on the porch light to see what I was doing.  All she could see, however, was the can of Bee-B-Gone laying on the ground in front of the garage door.  I was nowhere in sight.  That is, until the neighbor's headlights swept across me as he pulled out of his driveway.  I was hoping he noticed me lying there for I was in too much agony to move.

At the same time that I was focusing on just how close his left front tire was getting to me, I could hear Claudia opening the front door.  I wanted to yell for her to stay in as I knew the bees hadn't gone far and may be gathering reinforcements but the tremendous pain emanating from my now swollen ear let only a slight squeak come from my voice.

I could hear Claudia quietly yell, "Are you out here?"  It was at that exact moment that the outside edge of a Good-Year 75R-14 rolled across two fingers on my right hand.

Actual Post Starts Here:

Greetings,

As you can see - this year my Poetic License got renewed so I thought I'd take it out for a spin.

What do you think?

It has a lot more leeway than my old one did and has a tad more flash.

I kind of like it.  The clerk down at the writer's block said that this license, when used correctly, would keep folks from snoozing.

Looks like he was right.

I should note that at no time were any bees hurt in the above story. 

On May 25, 2004 I was walking through Meier's Department store trying to use up my lunchtime with something other than eating.  As I wandered up and down the aisles I noticed an 8-inch stainless steel frying pan, with a label that read, NEVER STICK OR SCRATCH, guaranteed for life.

I lifted it from the display hook and it felt quite substantial.   $18.99 on sale for $10.90

How could I not buy this pan?  It was the perfect size for frying up eggs or cooking up onions or whatever needed cooking up, PLUS, it was guaranteed for life.

So why am I telling you about my favorite pan?

I guess because over the years it has become a challenge to find one spot where I can keep the receipt and label identifying all the particulars of the warranty.  You see, if I lose that, I lose the one thing that drew me into this Pan – Person relationship to begin with.

I must say that for the past two years now this pan has lived up to it’s claims.  No sticking and no scratches.

The only flaw, if you will, is that the two rivet heads that secure the handle to the pan have lost their non-stick coating.

Somewhere along the old breakfast trail I must have scrambled up those lose flakes of coating and consumed them, along with a little onion salt and a sprinkle of chives.

At that moment we bonded.  We became blood brothers for life.  Although each of us works at opposite ends of the spatula we are now connected. 

In the words of an old Heckowee Chief, 

“Nitchpac Yupdurka”

(He looks like an egg and he’s a little cracked).