I went to buy new bras last week. Like buying a bathing suit, this is a task most women dread. As it turns out, you need to be fitted by an expert. That is how complicated it is. Now, you can go to any store, grab a bunch of bras, try them on, settle on something, and pay very little or a whole lot for it. But if you are coming home at the end of the day and have walked past the bloated dead body of your cat to get out of your bra, you are probably wearing the wrong size. And it’s little wonder you need an expert to figure it out.
First you need the band size. Your personal expert (and it does get personal) will measure you around the chest just under the girls. But that is NOT your band size. That would be too simple. You must add a specific number of cubits to that measurement, as put forth in Chapter 6, Verse 26 of the Book of Ruth found in the Old Testament. THAT is your band size. Your very personal fitter will then measure you at the fullest part of your bust. This is where it gets really tricky. She, and let’s hope it’s a she, measures you with your old bra on. Now, you may think this defies logic, and you would be right. If you are wearing a bra that is the wrong size, chances are your girls are either stuffed into too small a cup or padded in foam like a Waterford crystal fingerbowl. That is not really the measurement you want to use for your new, expertly fitted bra, is it? Let’s consider the alternative. You remove your old bra for the measurement. A couple of problems present themselves. One, no way in hell are you standing naked in front of a stranger and letting her wrap a tape measure around your girls! But just in case that is NOT a deal breaker for you, you may have another problem. The fullest part of your bust is now somewhere near your waistline. Sir Isaac Newton himself could not get an accurate measurement of that parabolic arrangement, though no doubt he could tell you exactly why your bust is now pointed toward the center of the earth. So let's just leave the old bra on, shall we?
With these two numbers and an algebraic equation derived from Einstein's Theory of Relativity, your expert will determine your true size, and you can grab a bunch of bras and try them on. OK, that's pretty much what you did before, but now you have a vague idea of where to start. Then, all you have to do is choose between back-closure and front-closure, smooth cup or seamed, underwire or wire-free, nipple revealing or discreetly padded, sexy-lacey or iron maiden, and 2-, 3-, or 4- hook closure. Once you settle on something you like, you may wish to purchase extras to rotate for wearing and washing, or perhaps some different colors to wear under certain clothes. You may think: same exact style, different color, same fit. But I am here to tell you, do NOT take those tags off until you have jockeyed those girls into the stirrups! I recently purchased a darker color of the style that fit me like a glove, and I felt like Alice after she went through the looking glass. Had I suddenly bloated up to gigantic proportions? Why no, the caramel-colored bra was smaller than the white one of the exact same size! Every brand, every style, and indeed, every individual bra is from a different planet on which a cubit is a completely arbitrary measurement.
As arduous as the process may be, you will eventually come up with a bra that will lovingly caress your ribs and your girls. The struggle will be worthwhile when you slide into your brand new, expertly fitted bra and go through the day without tugging, pulling, stuffing or yanking. I would still walk by a dead, bloated body to remove my bra at the end of the day, but I no longer have the urge to burn it in a conflagration of hellfire. And I don’t cry anymore when I have to sling one on in the morning. So trade in that “over-the-shoulder boulder holder” for the best friend your girls will ever have. And don’t forget to feel good about yourself for navigating these treacherous waters. Imagine if men had to go through this process to buy their underwear. I can hear the whining now. “What do you mean I’m a B-cup? These jewels are no less than a double-D!!”
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
I Miss Dave Barry
I miss Dave Barry. More specifically, I miss reading Dave Barry’s columns in the paper. It’s been several years since he retired from his syndicated vocation, and no humorist has come close to replacing him. Not with me, anyway. Dave Barry has the brand of wit that I adore: Irony and gross exaggeration. I employ these in my own writing, but never to as great an effect. When I would read a Dave Barry column, seldom did I make it through without laughing out loud. More often than not, I would have to stop reading and wipe away tears of laughter. Occasionally, I would wet my pants laughing. You’d think I would have learned to visit the powder room before picking up his column, but when you’re sitting comfortably in your chair with a cup of coffee, you just don’t think you have to go.
My husband can attest to my overzealous responses to reading Dave Barry. My high-pitched laughter would interrupt his own reading, as would my foot stamping the ground or my hand slapping the table -- my body’s attempt to dissipate a build-up of laughter that I could not release fast enough through my mouth. At times, I would writhe in my chair like a child being ferociously tickled. Bill would go back to his reading, knowing that when the outburst abated and I caught my breath, I would tell him exactly what was so funny. And even though he had already read and enjoyed the column himself (without the pant-wetting part) he would at least pretend to listen to my giggle-laced rendering of the bit that set me off.
Dave Barry could target my funny bone. His sense of the ridiculous has endeared him to me forever. I would shake my head and wonder how he comes up with such off-the-wall ways to describe things, that while conjuring up the most ridiculous image in your mind, would nevertheless hit the nail right on the head. Whether it was the relationships between men and women, parents and children, or golfer and golf ball, he could find the hilarity in it. And though he was often self-deprecating, he could describe a behavior with which we could all identify and make us laugh at ourselves. I have clipped my favorite columns from the paper and purchased collections of his writings for my bookshelves. Short bursts of cheer that are always readily available. For me, it is like hoarding laughter in a treasure box that you bring out from under your bed when you need comfort.
Why the sudden nostalgia for Dave Barry columns? I recently acquired a used book-on-tape that was a four-cassette collection of “The Best of Dave Barry.” Since my beloved used car has only a cassette player, and since most books-on-tape are now in CD format, I am always thrilled to encounter anything that will save me from the drivel of FM radio. And because I do not enjoy listening to suspense thrillers and bodice-ripping romances in the car, I rarely find titles that interest me. But what could be better than little helpings of humor delivered as you drive alongside all the morons that, regardless of their apparent inadequacies, have been able to obtain a driver’s license? This very morning, I popped the first of the tapes in as I set out on my errands. Even though it was not Dave himself doing the reading, I pressed the start button with great anticipation. After all, could anyone make a Dave Barry essay seem not funny? Well, as it turns out, someone can.
I will not mention the actor by name. I’m sure he did his best. After fifteen minutes with barely a chuckle, I realized that something was very wrong. It wasn’t the material that was unfunny (as if Dave Barry could BE unfunny!) but the way the person was reading it. I began to heckle him from the driver’s seat. “ You are reading that with way too much expression! You are making this sound ridiculous! It’s not supposed to hit you in the face like watermelon at a Gallagher show! It’s supposed to float in and sneak up on your sense of the ridiculous! You are being too flamboyant with that exaggeration! It should seem perfectly normal for that golf ball to weigh as much as Rush Limbaugh! My god, my god, you are totaling ruining this! Why didn’t Dave read this himself!! It is so much more hilarious when I am reading it in my head! What a disaster! You are a total hack!” Breathless with rage, I popped the tape out and threw it in the back seat. Only I could be driven to rage listening to humorous essays.
I really miss Dave Barry.
My husband can attest to my overzealous responses to reading Dave Barry. My high-pitched laughter would interrupt his own reading, as would my foot stamping the ground or my hand slapping the table -- my body’s attempt to dissipate a build-up of laughter that I could not release fast enough through my mouth. At times, I would writhe in my chair like a child being ferociously tickled. Bill would go back to his reading, knowing that when the outburst abated and I caught my breath, I would tell him exactly what was so funny. And even though he had already read and enjoyed the column himself (without the pant-wetting part) he would at least pretend to listen to my giggle-laced rendering of the bit that set me off.
Dave Barry could target my funny bone. His sense of the ridiculous has endeared him to me forever. I would shake my head and wonder how he comes up with such off-the-wall ways to describe things, that while conjuring up the most ridiculous image in your mind, would nevertheless hit the nail right on the head. Whether it was the relationships between men and women, parents and children, or golfer and golf ball, he could find the hilarity in it. And though he was often self-deprecating, he could describe a behavior with which we could all identify and make us laugh at ourselves. I have clipped my favorite columns from the paper and purchased collections of his writings for my bookshelves. Short bursts of cheer that are always readily available. For me, it is like hoarding laughter in a treasure box that you bring out from under your bed when you need comfort.
Why the sudden nostalgia for Dave Barry columns? I recently acquired a used book-on-tape that was a four-cassette collection of “The Best of Dave Barry.” Since my beloved used car has only a cassette player, and since most books-on-tape are now in CD format, I am always thrilled to encounter anything that will save me from the drivel of FM radio. And because I do not enjoy listening to suspense thrillers and bodice-ripping romances in the car, I rarely find titles that interest me. But what could be better than little helpings of humor delivered as you drive alongside all the morons that, regardless of their apparent inadequacies, have been able to obtain a driver’s license? This very morning, I popped the first of the tapes in as I set out on my errands. Even though it was not Dave himself doing the reading, I pressed the start button with great anticipation. After all, could anyone make a Dave Barry essay seem not funny? Well, as it turns out, someone can.
I will not mention the actor by name. I’m sure he did his best. After fifteen minutes with barely a chuckle, I realized that something was very wrong. It wasn’t the material that was unfunny (as if Dave Barry could BE unfunny!) but the way the person was reading it. I began to heckle him from the driver’s seat. “ You are reading that with way too much expression! You are making this sound ridiculous! It’s not supposed to hit you in the face like watermelon at a Gallagher show! It’s supposed to float in and sneak up on your sense of the ridiculous! You are being too flamboyant with that exaggeration! It should seem perfectly normal for that golf ball to weigh as much as Rush Limbaugh! My god, my god, you are totaling ruining this! Why didn’t Dave read this himself!! It is so much more hilarious when I am reading it in my head! What a disaster! You are a total hack!” Breathless with rage, I popped the tape out and threw it in the back seat. Only I could be driven to rage listening to humorous essays.
I really miss Dave Barry.
Monday, May 12, 2008
A Whole Lot of Self-Help Goin' On
I was perusing the non-fiction section of the library the other day, because I want to be able to do something, besides bore people, with my 2500 Italy pictures. Most of the computer books were about systems and programs unheard of by me, but I found one that I thought I could handle: “Digital Photo Editing for SENIORS” (emphasis theirs, like old people can only read capitals!) I can get red-eye out and brighten up dark pictures, but not much beyond that. I have a picture from a cathedral of an exquisite bas-relief sculpture with a stupid water bottle in front of it! It would be really nice to get that sucker out of there. I would eventually like to use Power Point to make a presentation, so I picked up a manual on its use. I’m hoping I can quickly glean the basics from the 400-page book, because if I have to read the whole thing, Italy and the rest of Europe may have, in the interim, completely succumbed to plate tectonics.
I wandered through the rest of the non-fiction and came upon the section that offers medical and psychological advice for the common folk, otherwise known as “self-help.” It turns out we need a lot of help, because this is a huge section. Guidance gurus are making quite a tidy profit pointing out all of our inadequacies, and it seems that very few of us are living as we should. It’s a good thing there are so many people with greater insight that are willing to share the truth with us. I, for one, am grateful to find out that teenagers can be difficult to live with and that families are very often not the pictures of harmony presented in the family sitcoms of yesteryear. I was raised on Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show, so my expectations were high. I’d been wondering for years why my alcohol consumption doubled during family visits.
I’m all for self-improvement. Sadly, many who need it most think they are perfect and will never grace the aisles of the self-help section. At least there are plenty of books to help the rest of us deal with them. There are a plethora of titles and subjects. I like the ones with a limited timeframe in which to reach a desired result. For instance, Self Magazine's 15 Minutes to Your Best Self, The 3-Hour Diet, 7 Days to Confidence, and 40 Days to Personal Revolution. And to think people spend years in therapy! If you have a little more time to invest, there is Body for Life: 12 Weeks to Mental and Physical Strength or Seven Weeks to Sobriety. (If your not that committed, you may prefer 7 Weeks to Safe Social Drinking.) These are my kind of books. After a specified time period, I can admit defeat and go back to my regular life. Or I can turn to my handy copy of Accepting Yourself: Liking Yourself All of the Time.
Many self-help authors have boiled their philosophies down to a finite number of steps. This can be very helpful for those of us who can manage only a little self-improvement at a time. Five Simple Steps to Emotional Healing sounds easy enough as does 7 Steps to Being Happy from the Inside Out. I can even handle 21 Guides to Emotional Self Control. But you are just pushing the limit with 100 Essential Steps to Less Stress and Anxiety. Oh my god! I think I may have missed a step! Or 365 Steps to Self-confidence. What? This is going to take a whole frikken year? Can I do them all in one day? How about the monstrous 611 Ways to Boost Your Self-Esteem. Come on now! Really? You couldn’t make it an even 600?
I found myself drawn to titles that seemed to contradict themselves. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self-Esteem. Is calling me a complete idiot really supposed to make me feel better about myself? Anger Management For Dummies. Who are you calling a dummy?? How about saying that to my face, you SOB!!! 500 Ways to Simplify Your Life. If I do them all, will I be Amish? The Relaxation & Stress Reduction Workbook. Relaxing as work. Interesting concept. Speaking of workbooks, there were plenty of them on the self-help shelves. Mastery of Your Anxiety and Worry Workbook. I’m pretty good at being anxious and worrying, but I could probably be better. The Memory Workbook: Breakthrough Techniques to…Improve Your Memory. Now, if I could only remember where the hell I put that thing…
There were some titles that really made me stop and think. Children of the Self-Absorbed: A Grown-up's Guide to Getting over Narcissistic Parents. In case you didn’t find this book before you chose a partner, Loving the Self-Absorbed: How to Create a More Satisfying Relationship with a Narcissistic Partner. I’m OK, but you’re better? Real Men Don't Lay on the Couch All Day. What if he’s lying on the couch, but he’s reading this book? Etiquette For Dummies. Rule #1: It is NOT polite to refer to people as “dummies!” The Procrastination Workbook. I need help with this, so I checked it out to work on later. You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?!…Adults With ADD. Ooooh…I think I’ve finally been diagnosed. 31 Words to Create a Guilt-Free Life: Finding the Freedom to be Your Most Powerful Self - A Simple Guide to Self-Care, Balance, and Joy (39 Power Words.) Damn! Just a couple more, and there would have been 31 words in the title! Surviving a Borderline Parent. Borderline parent? Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant? Or are we talking about people raised close to Canada or Mexico?
The catchy or quirky titles always brought a smile to my face. With an industry this size, it’s important to find a title that jumps off the shelf at you. Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl. I am looking at my husband in a whole new light now. How to Eat Like a Hot Chick: Eat What You Love, Love How You Feel. This sounds like something I can get behind. (Or will it get me a behind?) Don't Shoot Yourself in the Foot. This could be about self-defeating behaviors or a guide for masochists. Nuances of Nasal & Sinus Self-Help. Poetic alliteration, don’t you think? For those who have just a hint of congestion? Or a subtle snort from post-nasal drip?
Are there self-help books to help you with self-help books? You betcha! Overcoming Your Addiction To Self-Help Books is a great companion to The Last Self-Help Book You'll Ever Need. If you just can’t give them up, there are books to tell you which ones to read, like 50 Self-Help Classics, and even HOW to read them, as in How to Read How-To and Self-Help Books: Getting Real Results from the Advice You Get. And if you’re beyond reading them, you may want to try your hand at writing them. Choose from Writing Successful Self-Help and How-To Books or the inspiring How an Idiot Writes a Self-Help Book. And you don’t have to confine yourself to helping people. I found one in the pet section. Heeling the Canine Within: A Dog Self-Help Companion... The very witty Liane Leshne helps dogs “confront feelings of mixed-breed inadequacy, stop burying the past (and digging it up again) and resist owner-inflicted cross-dressing” I’m too busy reading other people’s books to write a self-help book, but I did employ my perverse wit to come up with some titles. Feel free to use these, or add a few of your own.
Attacking Your Angry Self
Timeless Tips for the Chronically Late
Bet on Yourself: Stop Your Gambling Addiction
Access Your Higher Self And Overcome Acrophobia
A Frame Of Reference For Borderline Personality Disorder
Follow Me To The Leader Within You
Facing Change With Multiple Personality Disorder
And yes, Virginia, there is a Ventriloquism For Dummies.
I wandered through the rest of the non-fiction and came upon the section that offers medical and psychological advice for the common folk, otherwise known as “self-help.” It turns out we need a lot of help, because this is a huge section. Guidance gurus are making quite a tidy profit pointing out all of our inadequacies, and it seems that very few of us are living as we should. It’s a good thing there are so many people with greater insight that are willing to share the truth with us. I, for one, am grateful to find out that teenagers can be difficult to live with and that families are very often not the pictures of harmony presented in the family sitcoms of yesteryear. I was raised on Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show, so my expectations were high. I’d been wondering for years why my alcohol consumption doubled during family visits.
I’m all for self-improvement. Sadly, many who need it most think they are perfect and will never grace the aisles of the self-help section. At least there are plenty of books to help the rest of us deal with them. There are a plethora of titles and subjects. I like the ones with a limited timeframe in which to reach a desired result. For instance, Self Magazine's 15 Minutes to Your Best Self, The 3-Hour Diet, 7 Days to Confidence, and 40 Days to Personal Revolution. And to think people spend years in therapy! If you have a little more time to invest, there is Body for Life: 12 Weeks to Mental and Physical Strength or Seven Weeks to Sobriety. (If your not that committed, you may prefer 7 Weeks to Safe Social Drinking.) These are my kind of books. After a specified time period, I can admit defeat and go back to my regular life. Or I can turn to my handy copy of Accepting Yourself: Liking Yourself All of the Time.
Many self-help authors have boiled their philosophies down to a finite number of steps. This can be very helpful for those of us who can manage only a little self-improvement at a time. Five Simple Steps to Emotional Healing sounds easy enough as does 7 Steps to Being Happy from the Inside Out. I can even handle 21 Guides to Emotional Self Control. But you are just pushing the limit with 100 Essential Steps to Less Stress and Anxiety. Oh my god! I think I may have missed a step! Or 365 Steps to Self-confidence. What? This is going to take a whole frikken year? Can I do them all in one day? How about the monstrous 611 Ways to Boost Your Self-Esteem. Come on now! Really? You couldn’t make it an even 600?
I found myself drawn to titles that seemed to contradict themselves. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self-Esteem. Is calling me a complete idiot really supposed to make me feel better about myself? Anger Management For Dummies. Who are you calling a dummy?? How about saying that to my face, you SOB!!! 500 Ways to Simplify Your Life. If I do them all, will I be Amish? The Relaxation & Stress Reduction Workbook. Relaxing as work. Interesting concept. Speaking of workbooks, there were plenty of them on the self-help shelves. Mastery of Your Anxiety and Worry Workbook. I’m pretty good at being anxious and worrying, but I could probably be better. The Memory Workbook: Breakthrough Techniques to…Improve Your Memory. Now, if I could only remember where the hell I put that thing…
There were some titles that really made me stop and think. Children of the Self-Absorbed: A Grown-up's Guide to Getting over Narcissistic Parents. In case you didn’t find this book before you chose a partner, Loving the Self-Absorbed: How to Create a More Satisfying Relationship with a Narcissistic Partner. I’m OK, but you’re better? Real Men Don't Lay on the Couch All Day. What if he’s lying on the couch, but he’s reading this book? Etiquette For Dummies. Rule #1: It is NOT polite to refer to people as “dummies!” The Procrastination Workbook. I need help with this, so I checked it out to work on later. You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?!…Adults With ADD. Ooooh…I think I’ve finally been diagnosed. 31 Words to Create a Guilt-Free Life: Finding the Freedom to be Your Most Powerful Self - A Simple Guide to Self-Care, Balance, and Joy (39 Power Words.) Damn! Just a couple more, and there would have been 31 words in the title! Surviving a Borderline Parent. Borderline parent? Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant? Or are we talking about people raised close to Canada or Mexico?
The catchy or quirky titles always brought a smile to my face. With an industry this size, it’s important to find a title that jumps off the shelf at you. Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl. I am looking at my husband in a whole new light now. How to Eat Like a Hot Chick: Eat What You Love, Love How You Feel. This sounds like something I can get behind. (Or will it get me a behind?) Don't Shoot Yourself in the Foot. This could be about self-defeating behaviors or a guide for masochists. Nuances of Nasal & Sinus Self-Help. Poetic alliteration, don’t you think? For those who have just a hint of congestion? Or a subtle snort from post-nasal drip?
Are there self-help books to help you with self-help books? You betcha! Overcoming Your Addiction To Self-Help Books is a great companion to The Last Self-Help Book You'll Ever Need. If you just can’t give them up, there are books to tell you which ones to read, like 50 Self-Help Classics, and even HOW to read them, as in How to Read How-To and Self-Help Books: Getting Real Results from the Advice You Get. And if you’re beyond reading them, you may want to try your hand at writing them. Choose from Writing Successful Self-Help and How-To Books or the inspiring How an Idiot Writes a Self-Help Book. And you don’t have to confine yourself to helping people. I found one in the pet section. Heeling the Canine Within: A Dog Self-Help Companion... The very witty Liane Leshne helps dogs “confront feelings of mixed-breed inadequacy, stop burying the past (and digging it up again) and resist owner-inflicted cross-dressing” I’m too busy reading other people’s books to write a self-help book, but I did employ my perverse wit to come up with some titles. Feel free to use these, or add a few of your own.
Attacking Your Angry Self
Timeless Tips for the Chronically Late
Bet on Yourself: Stop Your Gambling Addiction
Access Your Higher Self And Overcome Acrophobia
A Frame Of Reference For Borderline Personality Disorder
Follow Me To The Leader Within You
Facing Change With Multiple Personality Disorder
And yes, Virginia, there is a Ventriloquism For Dummies.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Billy Bob Battles The Bees
We cleaned our screened porch Saturday. This is a spring ritual that is undertaken only after the surrounding loblolly pines have divested themselves fully of their greenish-yellow pollen. A two-week dust storm of lemon-lime Kool-Aid leaves the world covered in a pervasive neon powder. Your eyes feel like you walked through a sandstorm, and you live life in a yellow haze, but the loblolly species will survive for another year. Chances are you will be pulling them up like weeds in the summer. But I digress. Billy Bob wrestles the furniture off the porch to be hosed down and scrubbed for summer duty. The leaf blower clears most of the pollen out through the screens. Then I come out with the Big Gun: the central vacuum system powered by a jet engine mounted in the garage.
No particle of dust, no iota of pollen, no trespassing arachnid can withstand the power of this vacuum. When we first had it installed, we entertained ourselves for hours watching the dirt dance before the powerful beater bar before being drawn, inexorably, into the mighty vortex of irresistible suction. This household duty eventually returned to its mundane routine, but when defending myself from invading insects, I still enjoy the power of capturing the enemy remotely with my patented two-wand extension! Such satisfaction! Again, I digress. With my magic wand (and hose) I was able to remove nearly every remnant of pollen from the floor and frame of our porch, and using the aforementioned double-wand, even cleared the rafters. Spider webs and winter's detritus disappeared into its mighty maw. I cut the engine and paused to enjoy my handiwork.
A residual, low-pitched buzzing sound teased my ear. Had I failed to completely turn off the system? No. Had a hungry hummingbird, growing impatient, braved the gauntlet of human activity to reach the sweet nectar on the deck? No. Then I spotted the source. Not one, not two, but three bellicose buzzers, their rotund black bodies laboriously hovering near the roof of the porch, their tiny wings straining to maneuver for landing. The dreaded carpenter bee. The behemoth of bees. Zeppelins of destruction, they have drilled a dozen holes into the eaves. And they were back. Like the swallows of Capistrano, they return to the eaves of our porch and drill their giant holes into the wood. They squeeze their corpulent bug bodies into the holes to lay their fat little eggs. But not today. Not on my watch.
I alerted Billy Bob to the presence of the enemy. We had tried before to swat at them, but they exist in a different dimension, able to move through time at will and remain just out of our reach. We knew no spray would deter them. But they had picked the wrong time. We were there, and we had the Big Gun. These elephantine bees are persistent, but they are slow. We might have a chance. I passed the wand through the screened door to Billy Bob. The bees hovered just over his head, trying to gain purchase on the eave. Billy Bob turned on the vacuum and pointed the wand at the first bee. It hovered in mid-air, just beyond the end, weaving and bobbing in a drunken dance against the pull. But its tiny wings could not save that tubby buzzer. We heard a click as he began his warp-speed trip through the walls of the house on his way to the canister of the damned. Billy Bob met my gaze with a sly smile as he pointed at the second bee. You have stayed too long at the fair, my friend. The wand again danced through the air. At first unsteady, the bee easily danced away. But Billy Bob tightened his grip on the wand and CLICK. Two down, one to go. Failing to heed the warning cries of his late friends before their demise, bee #3 hovered nearby. He was an easy target for Billy Bob, who now skillfully wielded the wand like the sword Excalibur. Victory.
Hours later, from upstairs, I could hear the familiar zip of the vacuum hose being dragged from its lair. I came downstairs to find my husband contentedly reading the paper on the screened porch. At his feet lay the sword Excalibur. Billy Bob had battled another bee. And won.
No particle of dust, no iota of pollen, no trespassing arachnid can withstand the power of this vacuum. When we first had it installed, we entertained ourselves for hours watching the dirt dance before the powerful beater bar before being drawn, inexorably, into the mighty vortex of irresistible suction. This household duty eventually returned to its mundane routine, but when defending myself from invading insects, I still enjoy the power of capturing the enemy remotely with my patented two-wand extension! Such satisfaction! Again, I digress. With my magic wand (and hose) I was able to remove nearly every remnant of pollen from the floor and frame of our porch, and using the aforementioned double-wand, even cleared the rafters. Spider webs and winter's detritus disappeared into its mighty maw. I cut the engine and paused to enjoy my handiwork.
A residual, low-pitched buzzing sound teased my ear. Had I failed to completely turn off the system? No. Had a hungry hummingbird, growing impatient, braved the gauntlet of human activity to reach the sweet nectar on the deck? No. Then I spotted the source. Not one, not two, but three bellicose buzzers, their rotund black bodies laboriously hovering near the roof of the porch, their tiny wings straining to maneuver for landing. The dreaded carpenter bee. The behemoth of bees. Zeppelins of destruction, they have drilled a dozen holes into the eaves. And they were back. Like the swallows of Capistrano, they return to the eaves of our porch and drill their giant holes into the wood. They squeeze their corpulent bug bodies into the holes to lay their fat little eggs. But not today. Not on my watch.
I alerted Billy Bob to the presence of the enemy. We had tried before to swat at them, but they exist in a different dimension, able to move through time at will and remain just out of our reach. We knew no spray would deter them. But they had picked the wrong time. We were there, and we had the Big Gun. These elephantine bees are persistent, but they are slow. We might have a chance. I passed the wand through the screened door to Billy Bob. The bees hovered just over his head, trying to gain purchase on the eave. Billy Bob turned on the vacuum and pointed the wand at the first bee. It hovered in mid-air, just beyond the end, weaving and bobbing in a drunken dance against the pull. But its tiny wings could not save that tubby buzzer. We heard a click as he began his warp-speed trip through the walls of the house on his way to the canister of the damned. Billy Bob met my gaze with a sly smile as he pointed at the second bee. You have stayed too long at the fair, my friend. The wand again danced through the air. At first unsteady, the bee easily danced away. But Billy Bob tightened his grip on the wand and CLICK. Two down, one to go. Failing to heed the warning cries of his late friends before their demise, bee #3 hovered nearby. He was an easy target for Billy Bob, who now skillfully wielded the wand like the sword Excalibur. Victory.
Hours later, from upstairs, I could hear the familiar zip of the vacuum hose being dragged from its lair. I came downstairs to find my husband contentedly reading the paper on the screened porch. At his feet lay the sword Excalibur. Billy Bob had battled another bee. And won.
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