The bees stung my father as soon as he walked out of the back door yesterday. My mom declared this "agressive behavior" and took action last night. She had thought she and my dad would plug their access hole to the shed wall with tape, then run for their lives, but when the bees didn't all go inside the hive at night she switched to plan B, which involved spraying them with her all natural poison.

It must have worked because the bees started moving the dead ones all over the yard, including several by the back door.

I think it was that, coupled with an email from next year's Rat Dad (a band person) and my mother's making me promise never to let anyone else drive my car, and nearly getting broadsided on the way to work on Monday, combined in my (admittedly warped brain) to a dream I definitely didn't enjoy.

My friend Graham and I were, for some reason, riding in the minivan belonging to and driven by last year's Rat Dad, a girl named Chrissy. When we got to our destination she told us to protect ourselves from the bugs outside we had to put on big T-shirts and tuck them into our pants. The T-shirts came from the floor of the van, which appeared to be where Chrissy stored her clothing.

Then, for some reason, Graham was assigned to back the van out of a parking space. I was in the back left seat, and for some reason, Graham started backing in the wrong direction and was going to hit the car parked next to us. I screamed "Stop! Stop!" repeatedly but he kept going and the van slowly crunched into the tailight of the other car. Finally Graham got the van stopped and we got out. He, Chrissy, and the other driver were discussing what had happened. Graham was insisting the brakes had gone out. And even in the dream I was thinking, "I should have been driving because I've driven vans and know where the emergency brake is."

It wasn't a fun dream. I don't like car accidents, even minor ones. Still better than being stalked by the guy who killed Levar Burton, though.