Yesterday morning as I watched my full-grown adult husband throw the trimmer to the ground and run up the driveway toward me with a wild, reckless glare in his eyes and strip his shirt off, I thought Really, Jerimiah, sex outside? In our driveway? In the morning? I mean don’t get wrong, I was game, but it was just out of character for him. I’m usually the one to suggest this sort of raunchy stuff. But I shrugged and stripped my shirt off as well. Then he yelled something like Bees! But not bees! Everywhere! All over me! And just as I was about to pull a boob out I was like Wait, what? Turns out he did not want to take me in the carport as Mrs. Kim peeked out of her garage window. Turns out, he was attacked by what we later realized were baby yellow jackets. About 15 of them. At one time. And then I felt kinda dumb and put my shirt back on.
Apparently, being stung by 15 baby yellow jackets isn’t ideal. Not at all. Apparently though, it could have been a lot worse. Jerimiah is not allergic to bees, or wasps, or yellow jackets, but if you are allergic and get stung 10-15 times you should seek medical assistance. Jerimiah did not. He went inside and took a shower and put some triple-antibiotic on his welts and said he wasn’t working in the yard anymore that day. But still, maybe he should have sought medical attention. I dunno. This was after he tried to go back and get the trimmer, but the baby yellow jackets had descended on that bitch like the trimmer was Meatloaf and they were fans of mild 1970s rock. I stood on the street and screamed at him, at them, at whomever was listening, But they are just babies! Why?! Why?! They LOVED that trimmer. And they would do anything for love…
Anyway, my husband woke up this morning a little swollen on his eye lid, and his cheek, and his thigh (they climbed inside his shorts), and his shoulders and ankles, then he went to the dentist, and loaded up in an Uber to head to Baton Rouge for the week. Because my husband is a fucking rockstar, like Meatloaf, but not really.
But I never got my driveway sex. Which is sad. Maybe I’ll track old Mr. Charlie down later, but for now I’m here to tell y’all to have a safe day. And a really happy, baby-yellow-jacket-free week. If you can.