Friday, June 6, 2008

The Amazing Bee Caper of Miss Lynn


I have a friend whose life is rife with comedic possibilites. Whose every day seems to be an "I Love Lucy" episode.

But sadly, the doors of comedic gold are closed to me, as my friend would scrub my elbows right off with a brillo pad if I exploited her eploits for laughs.

So, for example, I can't tell you about this spice can that was recently found in her cupboard. But if I could it would be really good. (Yes, that's the expiration date, Jan 79. No, that's not the oldest one I found.)

Or, for example, I can't tell you the story of how recently she was ill in bed...lying there in her invalid state when a bee buzzed in from the wall. Then another. And another. Until the room was buzzing with angry and darting bees whose hive had just relocated to her living room wall. I can't tell you how she hid, screaming and cursing, under her sheets. I can't tell you how she used a pillow case, Lucille Ball-esque, as a propeller that she swung around her head manically to repel the bees for 30 minutes until finally making a hobbling dash for safety in the bathroom.

No, I'll have to bore you with less interesting matters. Like how my husband and I are planning to move to New Zealand soon, where we'll live under the hill called, "the summit where Tamatea, the man with the big knees, the climber of mountains, the land-swallower who travelled about, played his nose flute to his loved one," or Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu, as it's more commonly known. There, we'll train to become nose flute afficienados and grow fat knees from eating Kiwi donuts.

I'll have to bore you with the details of a conversation we had in bed last night, as my husband dozed and I lay awake.
Mike: (Suddenly jerking up in bed and pointing) Look!
Me: What?
Mike: A circle!
Me: What?
Mike: The fishies.
Me: What?
Mike: The fishy.
Me: (Finally taking out my ear plugs) What?
Mike: The fishy. Don't you see it?
Me: No, I don't see anything.
Mike: I don't think I do either. I think I'm thinking of Moab*. Good night.
Me: Good night.
*Note: There were no fishies in Moab either.

5 comments:

T. said...

You better start wearing elbow protectors because you are sooooo dead!!! That person sounds awesome by the way!

Amber said...

shhh.....you're gonna give it away. I thought I was rather discrete.

Anonymous said...

I love the subtle flavors of aged spices. They befit a gentler, more refined time and don't shout rudely, "Taste me, taste me! Aren't I more potent and tasty than all others in the land? I am fresh and new, and I demand that all aging denizens be tossed in the rubish heap to rust."

Beelieve me -- No histronics here, just iron will and resolve against antennaed, hairy legged, honey toting, misguided transients. No match for a foe of age and refined tastes.

Amber said...

You crack me up, anonymous.

Tara said...

Oh, friend...you need to publish a book of hilarious short stories.

One night, about 2 months into our marriage, I apparently thought Adam was in great need of some underwear about about 2 am. So I got up, retrieved what I hope was his favorite pair of boxers from his dresser, folded them ever so neatly, and laid them by his head. Aren't I a helpful, sleepwalking wife? That was much better that the time I elbowed him in the face and gave him a bloody nose...

Watch out for those fishies!