My child has ants in his pants, and now I have bees in my fridge. Yes, bees, nestled in the produce drawer. They are napping bees, and they must stay cold to keep from awakening. They look like rabbit turds. Yum. So appetizing snuggled in with the spinach. To add insult to injury, they arrived in a chocolate box. MIM (The Man I Married) rushed off to purchase 100 Mason bees last night instead of honoring our Sacred Date Night. The blossoms at the pear orchard are blooming six weeks early, and he is mad for fertilization. Not our usual Sacred Date Night Faux Fertilization Rite, but the real Birds and the Bees pollinating real flowers. “But the pear orchard has managed just fine without you and imported bees for three decades,” I remind him, but he will not heed my mating call. He has flowers, he has bees, he must build them little houses. The lights flicker as he powers up his saw to craft miniature bungalows. Never was a male of the species more aroused by the arrival of spring. MIM got 125 bees for the price of 100, because he so charmed the Bee Man. MIM assures me that Mason bees do not sting, not unless you provoke them. MIM’s wife is not charmed. MIM’s wife is mad as a hornet, she’s got bees in her bonnet, and MIM is feeling the sting of her inflamed ire and cooled ardor. Cider kegs in the bedroom to keep them warm, bees in the fridge to keep them cold, husband’s in the doghouse until the winter of my discontent thaws. Alas, we failed to beware the Ides of March. Et tu, honeybee?