Fatigue: A Story of Susie Bee (Part III)

Susie Bee sat in the doctor’s office, listening to the sounds of stapling papers, stamps and the general buzzing of office life. It was rhythmic and made her doze off once or twice.

“Ms. Suzanne Bee?”

“Here I buzz,” Susie spoke, setting down her Bee Happy magazine. She had been reading an especially silly article about the Queen redecorating her hive in the newest fashions.

“What seems to be the problem today, Suzanne?” the nurse asked after taking Susie’s vitals in the receiving room.

“I’m not sure. But my buzz is weak, the rhythm in my knees is kaput and my antennas drag behind me when I walk. I’m tired all the time, my appetite has plummeted. I feel sick. It’s hard to even fly.”

“Well, you don’t have a temperature and your blood pressure is fine,” the nurse announced, scratching some numbers onto a clipboard. “But let’s do some blood work  to be safe and I can send them over to the lab. It’ll rule out some things. The doctor will review and call you; he’s out today on vacation. In the meantime, here’s a sick note and orders to rest and stay hydrated. If anything changes, let me know. You may just need to rest, Suzanne.”

Susie grumbled to herself on the walk home, mumbling about nurses with their degrees and feeling invalidated by the quick visit. Surely, something was wrong with her to feel so tired. Why didn’t anyone believe she was sick?

“Fore!” a voice shouted in the distance.

Surely, there was a pill waiting for her somewhere. She just needed the right diagnosis. Yes, maybe she should see another nurse, or ask to talk to the doctor directly. Or should she wait until the lab results came back?

“I said FORE, you idiot. Watch out!”

“What?” Susie muttered, breaking from her thoughts. She squinted about in the bright sunshine. “Four of what?”

And that’s when it hit her. A bright white golf ball, sailed through the air and landed– directly on Susie’s forehead.

Continue reading “Fatigue: A Story of Susie Bee (Part III)”

Fatigue: A Story of Susie Bee (Part II)

Susie Bee lay in bed, tapping on her laptop. Susie was looking up articles on HoneyCombMD, fitting on self-diagnosis like new shoes, seeing how each fit and looked on her dainty legs.

“Maybe I have American Foolbroud bacteria,” she announced squarely, squinting at the screen. “No, that’s not it. How about Colony Collapse Disorder? That can’t be it either;  I’m just one bee, aren’t I? A bent stinger? No, it’s as straight as ever and I sharpened it only yesterday. Hmm…”

Susie hummed in thought, buzzing up and down in volume.  She heard a Messenger Bee tap on her door.

“Susie Bee. How DO you be?” a voice sung out merrily. “Heard you hummin’ all the way down the hall. Here’s your mail!”

Susie looked up as a stack of envelopes fluttered down from her mail slot. Her pet aphid scurried forth and brought the mail dutifully to Susie in bed.

“Honey bill…Nurse Bee Bill from the BuzzBub Hospital. Undertaker Bees are taking up another collection, I see…Oh, here’s my bill from the Cleaners…”

Susie’s head swarmed as she added up the figures quickly in her head, using her antennae to carry over the ones.

“Oh, Alfred,” Susie moaned to her pet aphid. “I’ll have to work double shifts all next month to pay these bills! How is this even possible? I just caught up on my finances and now this!”

The bee shut her laptop and sighed, sipping on some clover juice. She scratched Alfred under the chin, humming again.

“Maybe I need to buzz up the doctor after all,” Susie concluded after awhile. “My research is becoming a drone and I’m getting nowhere. Perhaps the doc can get the pep back into my step.”

Continue reading “Fatigue: A Story of Susie Bee (Part II)”

Fatigue: A Story of Susie Bee (Part I)

Susie Bee was a busy bee. Up and down the stairs in the honeycomb castle she flew, serving the queen’s whims and wishes. As Susie Bee was responsible and hardworking, she worked diligently, ensuring the day’s work was done before sundown.

One day, Susie called into work using her buzzline phone. She pulled out a thermometer from her medicine cabinet. She used her antennae to hold the thermometer to her mouth while dialing with her free hand.

“Hello, this is Susie. I work on the 10th floor in administration and paper filing. Yes, yes I am Harold’s boss. Yes, he is a dear bee… I’m calling in sick today, I’m afraid. I think I have a fever and my knees have lost their rhythm. Yes, I’ll be sure to call the doctor. Thank you.”

Susie collapsed on her honey filled pillow. The thermometer let out a buzz, letting her know it had a reading. She pulled it out, dangling it it front of her face.

“Normal. Now isn’t that the bee’s knees…”

Continue reading “Fatigue: A Story of Susie Bee (Part I)”

Flash Fiction: Women Warriors

You know the drill–99 words, no more, no less. Carrot Ranch is the spot. This week’s theme is “Women Warriors.” Saddle up!

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Writing Tips & Self-Care: Finding Time & Avenues to Write (Hold On)

I hate the phrase “make time”; there really is no such thing. I will take “finding time” and “carving out time”, but never “make time.” Spare me these so called inspirational, guilt-inducing quotes of cotton candy nonsense. I can’t help but sigh and roll my eyes at these stupid, pushy sayings. I really hate what they imply: “You’re failing.”

These phrases often appear aimed at women. I see them on home decor, workout shirts and hear them pronounced in churches. Women are underpaid, overworked and already wearied by the many demands of a fickle, patriarchal society. We are poked at daily for never being “good enough”, aka a man. The world needs to back off and leave us be.

Women will never be men and maybe–just maybe–we were never intended to be. Our needs and bodies are different; our dreams, goals and ideas, too. Lipstick is our warpaint and pantyhose our nearest weapon of strangulation. Just try putting us into a box again. We can make that into a coffin for you, complete with curtains and a pearl necklace.

My, this blog entry took a turn. Let’s return to the main trail, shall we? Just step over the corpse twitching there…

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Baby Showers: An INTJ Female Writer’s Perspective

I hate baby showers. More specifically, I detest being around large groups of women. They smack their lips, gossip, compliment each other on their blouses, their charm bracelets and delicately ask about family affairs while devouring every dripping detail. Surgery stories are swapped, pill brands and doctor’s advice exchanged and everyone secretly ranks themselves against each other.  The news gathered up is stored away in their overstuffed purses giving them neck aches and back problems, stalwart, steadfast symbols of their socioeconomic status and success. In the car, they ask their sisters and nieces what they thought of the awful food, the cute decorations and just what the hostess was thinking. I do not exaggerate. Women are subtly, and artfully, vicious. Cue harpies, banshees and the like.

Parties are grand acts and I am the jester, acting the innocent fool and observing it all quietly, hitting up the buffet line for thirds. No wonder Jesus made more wine at the wedding. Maybe it helped him get through it, too.

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Firm Women & Firm Men: Perspective

Did you like how I listed women first in the title? The order rank of the genders is apparent in our culture, day in, day out. It seems only when we’re trying to be polite (“Ladies and gentlemen…”) or heroic (“Women and children first!”) does the order get reversed. In medical school, I’ve heard the male body is studied first, female second. Why, I query? No response. Doesn’t one have the babies and the other not, I continue? I learned in college “his” represents both “his” and “her” in academic writing, no need to bother with “they” or “them”. So why not “her” represent “his” and “her”, then, if it’s all the same? No response.

I don’t believe the genders were made to contradict each other and compete for survival. I think the idea should be laughable. Being different is okay; it’s not an invitation for some twisted version of this week’s “Survival of the Fittest.” Don’t make me wear shoulder pads, be aggressive, or take only two weeks for maternity leave. I believe we were made to complement each other and work alongside one another, each of our work important no matter how it’s parceled out and done. I think this compassion and respect became lost eons ago. And here we are. Ending sentences with verbs.

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