Oh, life, you wicked bitch

We have a bee problem. Actually a yellow jacket problem, which Ryan tells me are actually wasps. We also have a narrow driveway that Ryan backs out of every morning. We also have a tendency to freak out. Thursday morning Ryan kisses me goodbye and I fall into a sort of waking sleep. I hear a noise, think he's scuffed his car against the house. I walk out into the sunroom to see if the noise is his. I can't see his car so I let it go. Then I hear it,

"April!" and again, "APRIL!"

At this point I have no clue what is going on but I know it has to be bad if he has to shout for me. I throw on pants in flash so the neighborhood doesn't get to glimpse my undies. Run out the back.

I see Ryan, but I can't see the problem. He yells to go around the front of the house. And I'm running, I slip on the wet grass in the front yard, pick myself up and run to the other side of the house where I find my husband-to-be pinned to the side of our home sweet home by the driver side door of his Forester.

He tells me to put the car into drive. I do it. He's free. The car door is pretty much bent backwards.

I hug him. After the adrenaline has settled I ask,

"What happened?"

"There were bees in the car."

And I'm laughing and laughing and laughing.

So in the manner of the American we chemical-bombed those fuckers with two cans of wasp killer last night. I don't know that they're totally demolished, but the usual swarm wasn't there to greet me when I left for work.