They ARE Wondering. And They Are in Law Enforcement.

(Just a little update to this post from last month. *sigh*)

We have a small bee problem in our backyard (concrete) wall along the alley. This is a not a new problem; I will save a lot of time here by simply writing that some of our temporary solutions have involved spraying and others have involved duct tape. None have really worked, particularly not the solution called Ignoring The Problem because we keep hearing about how Bees Are Endangered.

I think the bees and our wall (beginning to fall over on one side of our yard, incidentally) have fallen under the homeowner category of Deferred Maintenance. That is, until our neighbor who lives behind us across the alley paid us a visit last week. He had just learned that the reason his recycling bin hadn't been emptied during the last two pick-ups was because the Recycling Man was stung by one of our bees a couple of weeks ago. He was very nice about it, and I was certainly chagrined to discover that our general Alley Lack of Attention was causing neighbors trouble again (last time it was overgrown bougainvillea, providing cover for shady characters).

After I called Bee People for advice, which can be summed up nicely in You'd Better Buy a Brand New Wooden Fence, my husband once again employed a vaguely explained temporary solution. And we offered to take our neighbor's recycling bin to our street...but it was not recycling week after all. Which, I guess, bought us another week to figure out what to do.

Just now I was in the backyard and spotted our neighbor in the alley. We greeted one another, and I apologized, profusely, again, and assured him we were taking care of the bees, with as much conviction in my voice so as to almost convince myself. Daughter #2, looking for Mom, showed up at my side. Our neighbor's eyebrows shot up and he said, "Hi! Who are you? Are you...well...the one...?" He looked at me, a little embarrassed. "It's just that sometimes we can hear..."

"Yep, that's her," I replied. "Unless, of course, it's her older sister." Egads.

I laughed and rolled my eyes, clenching my internal fists and stomping my virtual feet. They can hear us across the alley! CRAP!

"My wife and I joke that maybe you're beating her...but then one time we heard her yelling, 'I want ice cream!' so then we knew, nope! She's not being beaten." He smiled encouragingly.

Glad we got that cleared up.

At this point the ice was broken, I suppose, and we reminded each other of our names. My eyes landed on the left breast area of his tee shirt, where the letters SWAT were clearly printed.

"So, ummm...are you a cop?"

"Oh, I'm a deputy sheriff."

Uh huh. Of course you are! Great.