The Bee's Knees

Living in California is the bee's knees.

(And because you're just DYING to know, admit it:  
'Bee's knees' began to be used in early 20th century America. Initially, it was just a nonsense expression that denoted something that didn't have any meaningful existence.)

Literally.

As in, we have bees.

And not just a few here or there pollinating our flowers.

They've made a nice hive in the tiny space between our chimney and the roof line of the house.

Now, I'm a live and let live kind of person where bees are concerned.  They contribute serious value to our ecosystem, and no one in my family is allergic that I know of.

Except that apparently, the lifespan of a worker in a honeybee hive isn't very long, and they've chosen my front living room as a suitable spot for their bee graveyard.

Every day, I find three or four dead bees on the floor.

I never see any living--just dead.  I don't know if they flutter in somehow from the chimney on their last leg in the middle of the night and hospice here first, or if their families have a little "celebration of life" ceremony and then shove them down the chimney.  I seriously can't figure out how they're getting in my house.

Neither can the Terminix man.

Oh, and guess what?  Extermination of bees isn't included in one's typical maintenance pest service.

I get to pay $200 for someone to shoot chemicals of mass destruction into the space where the hive is and then seal the opening--murdering all of the poor honeybees.

Because there's no way to remove the hive without doing structural damage to my house.  I asked.  I'm not totally heartless.

And can I just say that it's pretty frustrating to pay what I do for raw honey at the store when a bunch of bees are making it in my roof?

Maybe if they'd leave a jar or two on the hearth of the fireplace when they say "farewell" to the next life well lived, we could work out some sort of co-existence.

Never a dull moment at Pozo de Dinero!