My cat-like reflexes.

We "did bees" today. This entails opening up all eight hives and thoroughly pestering the bugs until someone gets stung.

This some one is always my dad. He doesn't usually wear a veil or even long sleeves, unlike me in my Impenetrable Mesh Fortress. My mom says he likes to get stung so people will see his swollen eye and know he is a Proper Beekeeper.

I want to be a Proper Beekeeper, too, but I am a wimp. I am trying to wean myself out of my bee gear, sort of ease myself toward awesomeness, and so today I do not wear my gloves.

I pull out frames, and scrape propolis, and touch bees bare-handed, like a real macho badass, like my dad. I can tell he's sort of proud, he says "we'll have you out of that suit in another week", and everything's going so well, we're bonding over our shared mettle until...

I hold a frame up to look for the queen, at eye level, and I get stung, right on the tip of my ring finger.

So I do what any hard-core pro does when they experience that twingy pinch of ouchy-ness:

I scream and throw an entire frame of bees.

They land three feet away (I even throw like a pussy) and bees go everywhere. I look at my dad, finger throbbing, all ready to employ my patented RLH strategy (that's "run like hell" for you non-cowards), and he's just calmly staring at me. Like crazy people throw hundreds of furious, stinging insects at his head all the time.

And he says, a trace of disappointment in his voice, "Careful you don't step on the queen" and goes back to keeping bees.

I swear he must be on muscle-relaxers or something.

There's is just no way anybody's that cool.

The Boxer.

I saw you walking out of Golden Gloves. You were talking to an older man, and laughing. Dark hair, strong arms, robust chest, fantastic smile. You were slowly unwinding the tape from around one hand onto the other; like a terrifying come-hither, brutal and sensual. I think I love boxing.

I was the girl at the fireworks stand wearing tight jeans, a black and gray striped V-neck, with long brown hair pulled into a pony tail. The girl who broke off ordering smoke bombs mid-sentence to gawk at you. The girl who stood mouth agape, like men sometimes do to her, no finesse or casual glance, just stupid, caveman lust--"Og want boxer". I was the cartoon wolf with bug-eyes silently shouting "Aw-Whoo-Gah!"

Thank god you didn't stop and talk to me. I wasn't capable of anything at that point but mouth-breathing all over you. You just smiled at my rapt attention, glancing over a few times, as if to say, "That's it, kitten. Keep looking. Don't make me come over there, you don't want that. There's a lot of fighter here, I'd hate for you to be out of your division."

I'm sure you've knocked out more than your share, but I'm no feather-weight. My paws have traveled south, and I've roped a dope or two in my time. I think I could hold my own, and possibly yours, if you let me, in an honest wrangle.

But, girl, pigtails are below the belt, and you know it. There's no saving hook for that shit.

You win this round.

If anybody needs me, I'll be on my mat.

(For the thick amongst you: yes, the boxer was female. Now, reread it with that new level of hotness and try to appreciate my apparently way-too-subtle-subtlety.)

Tweetloaf, again?

I'm having a hard time talking myself into resurrecting my social networking self. It's like when you know you should eat leftovers, but when you pull them out of the fridge, you don't feel inspired enough to microwave them. So you just have cereal instead.

Like that. It just all feels so...Tila Tequila. Remember when MySpace first came out? And we all peed our pants a little because we thought we going to be blog-famous?

Ugh.

At least FaceBook is glad to see me, even if it's being a little 2001: Space Odyssey about it.

FaceBook: Welcome back Emma. We missed you.
Me: Um, alright. Thanks.
FaceBook: We found you some friends, Emma.
Me: Well, let's not get carried away...
FaceBook: EXTERMINATE!

(I know, I'm mixing my nerd genres a bit there. Time travel, space, whatever. Back the fuck off, FaceBook. You're making me nervous.)

When I went to sign up for a Myspace account, somebody (looks accusingly at crowd assembled) had already opened one with my email. Uh-huh. And when I requested the password, it was "isuckcocks". I don't know how you did this, Mr. or Ms. Internet Impersonator, but my cap is off to you. Well played. I do, indeed, suck the cocks.

Moving on, back to my bitching. Everybody and your mom uses The MyFace for self-promotion. (Literally, your mom. She's updating her relationship status to "swinger" as we speak. Dear god, stop her before takes another survey.) I don't want to use the system, the system is lame.

I'm sorry. I hate to be that pretentious suck-face jerk-off that's like "oo, I was into blah-blah before everyone else and it's so uber-lame now" because fuck that guy and his hipster "cool-than-thou" schtick--I just found out about snap bracelets.

Buuuuuuuut. I was into it before everyone else, and I got out of it before it got stupid popular (like, as in, people who don't own a fucking computer go to the library to Twitter) and now...it's just so uber-lame.

(adjusts finger-less gloves and makes sure messy emo bangs are hanging precisely just so.)

I'll do it, but I don't have to like it, and I'm going to be a twit about it the whole way. Just so's you know.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take many unique and saucy pictures of myself next to various amusing and ironic objects.

Because that's just how me and your mom roll.

I Did It!

It's done! I published the book! I am a Roadtrip: Fearless Exaggeration and Not Quite Truth by Emma (Are you ready for it? My last name, at long last?) Arnold!

It's only available on the Kindle for now, but I'm working with Createspace to get a hard copy into the grubby little hands of you Kindle-less peasants.

(Moonpye got me a Kindle for our anniversary, and holy-omi-gawd, do I ever love it. I want to run away to Canada with it and make many PDA love-children.)

I decided to self-publish because:
1) I'm lazy.
2) I'm impatient.
3) I'm moving on.

For the last year, I have poured every ounce of my creative energy into morphing a loose collection of blogs into a semi-readable book, and fuck me--I am sick of it. For my long time readers, there's about three chapters of new stuff that I've been refraining from posting here. And for the newbs, there's poop, washing old people, and lots of references to buttsex. Fame won't change me, don't worry, I'll always be good for a barf story.

Now I need to market the shit out of it, and that means I need to resurrect my internet-whoring-self on the MyTwitFace sites. Sigh. I was just starting to enjoy anonmynity. I'll post a link, so you can all friend me (warm-fuzzy-goosh); it'll be like old times.

So, what have you missed while I've been buried beneath my own poor prose? Well, let's see.
-Smooth's walking and he says "No. Don't."
-Henry can do a flip under water.
-Calvin hates the out-of-doors.
-Moonpye codes flash games when he's not saving lives.
-Our dog Jack swallowed a popsicle, stick and all, sideways.
-There are eight hives of bees in my dad's yard.
-We have ducks.

Oh, and I PUBLISHED A BOOK, motherfuckers!

Thanks for all your support; I really couldn't (see also: wouldn't, you naggy bitches) have done it without you. Tell me what you think! (But, you know, nicely, because I'm scared shitless of bad reviews.) Much boggy-goodness to come, I've missed you guys so much!

This Week, in Bees.

I caught my first swarm!



It was totally awesome. We just stuck a box under them, gave the branch a "whomp" and fifteen pounds of bees fell right down into their new home.

As you can see, I wore my "impenetrable fortress of wussitude", but I didn't really need it; they were as calm as kittens.

I lost all three hives this last winter. Official BeeSuit notwithstanding, I suck at beekeeping. Two weeks ago, we bought three nucs (that's a queen, about twenty thousand workers, and four frames of eggs and larvae), and now with this swarm, we're up to four hives!

Just because I'm the Happiest Bee-Covered Nerd on the Planet, here's a list I wrote for our newsletter.

Five Things You Can do to Help Bees:

1. Buy local honey
Buying local raw honey helps local beekeepers to cover costs of protecting bees. It tastes great and may have the added benefit of helping seasonal allergies.

2. Protect swarms
Swarming is the natural process by which colonies of honey bees increase their numbers. If you see a swarm, call a beekeeper to collect the swarm. Honey bees in a swarm are usually gentle and present little danger. They can be aggressive if disturbed or sprayed with water. Just leave them alone and wait for a beekeeper to arrive.

3. Plant bee friendly plants
Unfortunately, our Kentucky bluegrass lawns make for slim bee-pickins. Much of what we call “weeds”, bees call food. Dandelions and white clover provide bees with excellent sources of pollen and nectar. Encourage honey bees to visit your garden by planting mints, beans, flowering herbs, asters, daisies, and bee balm.

4. Join us!
Beekeeping is an enjoyable and interesting hobby. Most clubs have classes or a mentoring program for beginners. There’s nothing sweeter than the taste of your honey, and your garden will love your for it.

5. Learn more about this fascinating insect.
Did you know a queen bee can lay over two million eggs in her lifetime? Did you know male bees (drones) have no stingers? Did you know beekeepers love to talk about bees? It's true! Invite a beekeeper to speak to your local group, school, or event. They may even bring honey.

Whoo! That's a whole lotta geek for one girl, I hope you can still love me after seeing me nerdgasm like that.

I just love bugs. Is that so wrong?

I Only Accept Information in This Form, Starting Today.

Extra, Extra.

The other night Raleigh and I are having sex, him on top, and we’re in the Zone. You know, the perfect position, perfect rhythm, hitting that spot dead on, not thinking about anything, just enjoying it.

All the sudden, he pulls back and looks at me, and says, “Uh…”

Oh shit, he’s going to tell me he’s not into this. Maybe he thinks I’ve lost too much weight. Or not enough. I should have shaved my legs, and I’m so pale, I really need to get a tan. Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive anymore. Maybe every time we fuck, he has to think about sweet, flexible little Shawn Johnson, just to power through it. Maybe I look old, and he’s going to say so. I thought I looked pretty good for three kids, but body image is a funny thing, and I’ve always been a little oblivious.

“Uh…”

Oh god, I’m a troll. A pasty, cellulitey troll. A saggy, baggy, middle-aged, troll. Or worse, omg, so much worse, maybe he thinks I feel ‘loosey-goosy’. Damn you, Smooth, and your giant Ukrainian head. I Kegel, but maybe it’s not enough. I’m a chubby housewife with a paperbag vagina, and he’s about to tell me so.

“Uh.” He frowns. “Honey, I’m sorry, but…”

Just tell me, I’m ready. I’ll find something beyond vanity, I’ll get a career, I’ll volunteer, I’ll perfect my quiche recipe. My youthfulness may be sapped, I may not be sexy anymore, but I still have so much to offer. Bring it, be brutally honest. I'm ready for the worst.

“I lost my gum in your hair. Like five minutes ago.”

“WHAT?”

I reach behind my ear and, sure enough, cohesive proof of my husband’s vigorous ardor. A tangled, sticky mess of devotion.

Tenacious as insecurity, immovable as love, a binding reminder that I am an idiot and I think too much, cemented to the back of my silly head.

D'oh.

Here's hoping peanut butter works on self-doubt.

My Stomach Flu Speaks For Me.

Funny, the things you promise when you've emptied yourself of everything, stripped yourself bare of stomach lining and cohesive thought.

"No more sex blogs. No more alcohol. No more coffee. No more Happy Hippos, I swear it. Just please let me have a sip of ginger ale and a nap. That's all I ask."

Body says "No."

My bathroom floor is my Mr. Miyagi. Sweats on, sweats off. Bow. Don’t forget to breath, very important.

Discipline. Patience. Perseverance. Courage. These are the things I lack outside my bathroom. I have plagiarized intergalactic-oneness through immobilized meditation. I am a cheater-cheater-lotus-eater. This gut-wrenched harmony will disappear with my first bowl of chicken noodle soup.

And I will go back to busy health.

I want inner peace without the viral battle. I thought beekeeping would bring me stillness; all the old guys in my club are Totally Zen. Peaceful, slow talking, mellow. I want to be mellow. I want to stand silent, squinting at the sun, arms crossed, just contemplating the Universe and shit. Even when I’m still, it’s takes energetic internal effort. I am the Terrier to their Bulldog, the yippy frenzy to their placid nod. This is why all my bees died, I am obnoxious.

Can one find serenity in chaos? I was paged in my tai-chi class four times; try finding your center while the intercom is saying “Will the mother of ‘Manbat’ please return to childwatch?” I fell asleep during yoga, twice. I am currently writing this with one foot ON A CHILD. (What? He loves it.) My life is gymnastics and chickens and did somebody pay the gas bill and who put rocks in the blender and for heaven sakes, put on some pants and I’m sure he didn’t mean to pee on you and yes, we’re having spaghetti again and stop poking your brother and that’s not mold, it’s science and would somebody please wake me when we finish Downward-Facing Dog, I’m spent.

I just want to wash cars and paint fences.

Except, you know, metaphysically. From a hammock.

I bet I could find inner peace in a hammock.

Rush is (well within his) Right.

I saw a “Impeach Obama” bumper sticker yesterday. Three weeks! He’s only been president for three weeks! Bah-jeebus! I mean, I agree the guy’s smooth, but even a brother needs a month to organize an Oval Office Intern Orgy. (Am I allowed one “Where the white women at?!” Just one? And then I promise I’ll go back to being a super-duper PC race reconciliation buddy?)

That’s the only thing I can imagine provoking the Republicans into crying impeachment: a big girl booty call. Eight years of Fun With Dick and George left our Constitution looser than a Lewinsky and all I ever heard from the Dittohead-types was the arms-straight-out, fundamentalist zombie mantra: “support your president.”

Funny that. Rush Limbaugh say he isn’t going to support Obama’s administration, says "I want everything he’s doing to fail” and Sean Hannity says he’s “going underground” to combat Obama.

It’s been a over decade since I’ve been in a majority. The mob-womb feels so warm and fuzzy, so deliciously legitimate, so comfortably moral. I could stand upon the mount of nationalism and rain the stones of righteousness amongst the dissenters. Big ol fuckers; granite gobs of “God Bless America”, fat frags of freedom feldspar, lumbering loads of limestone liberty. (My parents just got their money’s worth for my three years of college, right there in that sentence. Drop-out high five.)

We could adopt a color of ribbon, replace the name of states that didn’t vote with us, but against us with the word “freedom”. Have a Freedom Peach. (Fuck you, Georgia). Gravy on your Freedom Potato? (Eat dick, Idaho.) I loves me some Baked Freedom. (Sarah Palin? Seriously, Alaska?)

We could have so much fun. (Think of the stones!) We could unite behind Keith Olbermann and give him all our rage, we could prego his ego and make him the voice of our indignation. We could have our own O’Reilly! Just imagine it! The peevish tantrums we could enjoy! The huffs we could savor! We could tell people to “shut up” and then accuse them of lowering the tone of political discourse.

We could—dare I say it—we could have our own Ann Coulter. Whoa.

Which is exactly why we must encourage dissent and welcome criticism from our fellow Americans. Let us not repeat the intolerance of the last eight years. The conservatives can have their skeletal ideologue; we will feed on a diet more filling than dogma. Their rabid mouthpieces can keep their dander up; we’ve stamina in more than our scalps. They can poison the AM airways; pre-twentieth century technology isn’t really our bag anyway, baby.

The Republicans will help us keep Obama honest. I would not have another Fox News Legitimized Monarchy, even with my guy as king.