Sweet, sweet music

"I'm going to the mall this weekend. I need some retail therapy."
"Nice, I can't. I have to save my money. I'm buying a piano this weekend."
"What? I was thinking a cute top, not a musical instrument that doubles as a piece of furniture!"

For hours Saturday afternoon I visited old pieces of music that hadn't been played in years. The cat watched from the top of the corner built in cabinets, confused by the new sounds bouncing around the living room.
Sunday I told myself I couldn't play until all of the leaves were cleared from the yard. Fifteen trash bags later, which is an impressive number considering I don't actually have any trees in my yard, I started picking up my tools with one thing on my mind: the piano. With my fingers distracted by Pachelbel's cords I didn't even notice when they closed around the bee sunning itself on the roll of leftover bags. I did notice when the little bugger, excuse the pun, stung me right in the middle of my palm. I yelped, Ebbie came running, and the bee flopped death flops on the floor.
My first bee sting. Mom told me to use baking soda, Google said toothpaste, and John the paramedic swore by meat tenderizer. The only thing that worked was ice. Of course, my makeshift icepack, aka a plastic baggie with ice cubes in it, burst in the middle of the night and I woke up in a puddle. Yesterday was no better but today, today I think I might be able to practice again. I hope. Stupid bees.