So, apparently the idea of a quiet Sunday evening just doesn't appeal to me on some unconscious, bizarre level.

We spent some time yesterday organizing the mudroom. Okay, to be fair, Willem spent time organizing it and I waltzed in during the last 30 seconds to say, "Oh, it looks great." Then I grabbed Jacob's carseat, which had been inside for a few weeks. We have primarily used the Jeep since we moved, but Willem starts classes next week so I'll be back in my own car then, so I wanted to get the carseat set up before I actually needed it.

So I carted it outside, and started to plug the seatbelt through the back, when I was interrupted by searing pain on my left middle finger. I knew I'd gotten stung by something or other, and instantly went into Panic Mode, since the last time I got stung (9 years ago, eek!) was by a bee, and I had a full anaphylactic reaction to it. This time the offender was an all-black wasplike creature, which apparently can sting me and then fly around and taunt me mercilessly.

But, really, no worries, right, because I have three EpiPens, one in my school backpack, one in my purse, and one in the diaper bag. HAH. I went straight to the diaper bag, nothing there. Willem went in and dumped my purse all over the kitchen table ("Wow, you have a lot of crap in there."), nothing there. I found my backpack, it had been completely emptied since I finished school in May. This is just bizarre to me, I have no idea where I would have put them.

But anyway, after a few moments of standing stupid in the middle of the kitchen going, "Ow. Where could they be? Ow," I realized that my left arm had knotted up tight and was starting to ache into my shoulder, so we headed for the ER. Jacob was in his Spider Man shirt and a diaper, which is sort of a fashion war between Manliness and Babyness, and Emily had been playing in the backyard so she was covered in leaves and bugs and had apparently been taking hits off the whine machine, because she was full of 'em. "But I don't WANNA go to the hospital, I'll be borrrred there." I'd like to note here that I did not tell my daughter to bite me, all temptation to the contrary.

We get to the ER, and I got bumped to the front of the line. Such a privelege, I know. I was checked my a triage nurse while Willem was still parking the car and wrestling the kids inside, so by the time he showed up, he just sees me standing there waiting and the check-in woman taking my insurance information. He got all snarly and righteous about them wanting irrelevant information when his wife was about to die on the floor (and, just for the record, my last reaction took well over an hour to set in, so it wasn't THAT urgent) - it was cute, though, my flustered Knight in Daddy Armor.

They took me back while he continued to supply strings of numbers and addresses at the desk, and I got shots of epinephrine and steroids and an IV put in "just in case." The steroids shot was just a whole barrel of fun, let me tell you. It's administered to the "glutes" because it's an "oil-based medication" that "is one of our most painful medicines." GREAT, can I get two?!? The shot itself wasn't bad, but it immedately created an enormous, well, pain in my butt. Truly delightful. I had also popped a few Benedryl before I left the house, so I'm hanging out in my hospital bed with a wicked sexy robe, jittery from the epinephrine and loopy from the Benedryl. I read a Good Housekeeping from 2003 for an hour and a half, wasn't able to finish the whole magazine, and could not tell you what I read if I was offered a million dollars.

I was home by about 8:00 last night, and proceeded to do my very best to hold down the couch in a sullen, lumplike manner. I succeeded in a rather smashing manner, I must say.

I'm better today, still hungover from the meds and my butt still hurts, but all in all that's better than the alternatives.