Julianna had a couple of girls over for a summers-almost-over sleepover last night. Easy-peasy, they just disappear into her room and play or plot the over-throw of matriarchal society or make fun of classmates. I have no idea. They seem like nice kids, but they always do, don’t they? Time for pick-up nears, so I go get dressed so that I’m not greeting parents in my jammies. Standards of decency and all. I’ve just gotten on a skirt and T when one girl’s parents come to pick her up. Mom and Dad come up the walk, friends of ours, nice folk. Grandpa’s in the truck. I wave to him. The girls all come out onto the porch. We chat about gardens and lawn services. I see a bee/bug of some sort on my knee. I give my leg a shake and continue chatting. And feel something sting me uncomfortably close to my lady parts. The brain, in such times, does not really care about modesty (to which my pantsless trip to the ER to give birth to Ben will attest). I yank my skirt up and do the bee-in-my-pants dance. The sting was momentary. The look on the face of my 11 year old daughter’s friend’s dad is forever. “oh, hey Don. Just, um…well. Sorry ’bout that. Bee up my skirt…Hey, we’re all friends here, right?” “Don’t worry, I never saw your pink underpants.” “Excellent. That’s what I thought.” And THEN the wee bastard bit me AGAIN, on the belly, having just crawled a bit higher up my skirt when I thought I was flushing him out. I excused myself to go strip, dancing all the way. The kids were able to breathe again no more than 10 minutes later. I didn’t think to see if Grandpa had enjoyed the show. We’re a welcoming people here in Braddock Heights. Unless you’re a bitey bug.