Why would a bear mow the lawn on a hot, humid day?

 "Sydney...go get Chlo," I yelled to my daughter as our dachshund neared the bee tree. "Why couldn't you get her," Sydney asked, after dashing quickly in to rescue the dog. "I have dark clothes on," I explained, "they'll think I'm a bear."
"That's ridiculous," she snapped.

Or is it?

We have had some bee problems for awhile now. But yesterday was a perfect storm. Why does no one but me research anything? And why does no one believe me when I share the conclusive results of my research?

Mowing in the middle of the day? Bad idea. Mowing in the middle of a hot, humid day? Also a bad idea. Mowing in the middle of a hot, humid day wearing dark clothes? C'mon! I don't understand why bees would think a bear would be mowing in the middle of a hot, humid day...but they do. So combine sweat, vibration, and a bear threat and there you go. At one point, we couldn't see Brad through the cloud of bees as he raced for the house.

"I knew this was going to happen," I said, holding a frozen bag of fajita-style vegetables to my husband's ankle as he yelled for some tweezers. "You're suppose to use a credit card or an onion to remove the stinger," I told him but, as luck would have it, the stinger was removed as he peeled off his sock. "See...my sock is white. What does that do to your research? Did they think I was a polar bear," he grimaced. He was in pain...otherwise he would have never said such hurtful things to me.

"Take this," Brad said, trying to hand the expelled stinger to Sydney. "I'm not touching that," she said, backing away. "Oh...give it to me," I said in exasperation. Do I have to do everything?

What happened next was unreal. You know that scene in "Pirates of the Caribbean" where the skeletal hand is ripped off the arm of a pirate of the cursed Black Pearl yet continues to fight? That's what happened. The stinger, still attached to the a$$-end of the bee, rose up and plunged itself viciously into the palm of my hand. I howled. I tried to throw it in the garbage but it clung to me like some sort of sick saran-wrap. I finally freed myself from this venomous barb and raced back into the living room but received neither pity nor a frozen bag of fajita-style vegetables to soothe my pain.

Up to this point, we've had a bee problem. Let's just say that now...the bees have a people problem.