My couch is buzzing. Literally. I don’t know what it is. I’ve heard it all morning, and despite having spent time with my ear cocked to one side, listening intently (whatever it is seems to stop when I do that), and making a couple of spectacularly half-assed attempts to locate it under the enormous piles of crap that are covering every square millimeter of the seating area except for those immediately beneath my backside, I still don’t know what it is. And instead of removing everything on the couch to
clean up the mess try to locate whatever it is that is buzzing, I’m writing this.
Have I mentioned lately that I am a Domestic Goddess? No? Well, that’s probably only because I’ve been a total blogging slacker and haven’t mentioned anything lately.
You’re probably thinking, “It’s your cell phone, dummy. Someone is trying to call you. And you’re not answering. Jerk.” It is NOT my cell phone. I know where my cell phone is – it’s in its little pooch, which is snapped securely to the belt loop of the jeans I wore yesterday, which are downstairs in the basement/master bedroom, laying on top of a heap of other previously-worn garments. NOT on the couch. Also, my cell phone is never set to vibrate: it is either off, or it blasts Myron Floren’s disco version of “Clarinet Polka.” (Yes, I actually own the vinyl album that song is on; it’s appropriately (and awesomely) titled, Disco Polka. It is the only LP I possess, and I paid good money ($7.99, shipping included) for that sucker on eBay because it is surely The Best Album Ever.) Point being, my cell phone is not buzzing. It’s not even within earshot. So you might be right that if someone is trying to call me, I’m not answering. Just like I’m not doing anything about the messy buzzing couch except writing about it.
It is not one of the cats. Buzzing and purring (or snoring – which our cats seem to have a penchant for doing) are different.
I have a theory on the buzzing. For the past few weeks, I’ve been on a bit of a bender. Some people drink or organize Legos or quote Charlie Sheen. I, on the other hand, dive headlong into bizarre hobbies, and so have spent obscene percentages of my time recently learning about bees and beekeeping. Yes, beekeeping. I’ve attended a meeting of the local beekeeping association, taken a field trip to Menards to explore construction material options for beehives (’cause only a sane person would buy pre-made, standardized equipment – duh), doodled hive blueprints that The Mad Russian claims look like something da Vinci drew, and even took a genuine, bona fide class! Yeah, this is for real. Or it will be, once I actually get the hives built and populated with thousands of pollinating, honey-making little friends.
Seriously, though, I don’t think there’s any chance a live bee could have hitchhiked into my house in early March in northern Illinois, found its way into the amazing assemblage of scheit on my couch, gotten stuck there, and not buzzed to make its presence known until today…but that’s sure what it sounds like.
I hope it isn’t a bee. Not because I worry about being stung, but because I would feel really badly knowing the poor helpless critter was stuck in my couch right next to me while I sat on my arse and blogged about it…
If it’s an insect at all, it’s probably a fly.
But what if it is a bee?
Or even if it is just a fly, does it deserve to die a slow, painful death, imprisoned by my clutter?
Is this a metaphor for my life?
Now I feel horrible and guilt-ridden just like I do when that devastatingly-effective ASPCA/Sarah McLachlan commercial airs.
Alright, I’m going to end this now so I can clear off the couch to save the whatever-it-is AND go get my cell phone so I can hear it if you call me.
Neither of which I would have done were it not for
a serious guilt complex my mother bees.