Sometime Friday afternoon, as I was unloading groceries from the car, taking out the trash and pulling a stray soda can from the flower bed****RANT ALERT*** G-damned neighbors and their inability to close the lid on their effen trash cans during the windy season. Bastids***END RANT***; I managed to pick up a hitchhiker on my head.
It was a wasp.
A freaking wasp.
I continued into the house, blissfully unaware of the demonic insect with murderous intent lurking on top of my head, until, upon feeling a strange rustling in my hair; I raised my hand to brush away what I assumed was a ladybug or some other harmless thing , and, ZAP! Fucker stung my ring finger.
It. Was. Painful.
Probably more so for the wasp, which, I ripped from my hair, squished like, well, like a bug, and; threw to the floor where Finnigan finished him off, eating his carcass for good measure. Fucking wasp.
My poor finger throbbed and burned and generally hurt like a sumbitch until an hour later when, while hot-gluing one of Finnigan's toys; I managed to deliver a fifth-degree burn to my middle finger, pulling off at least three layers of skin and eliciting a string of curse words that would have made the devil himself shake his head at my audacity.
The pain in my wasp-stung finger paled in comparison. Bonus? I guess.
Both fingers still smarted on Saturday when, after sitting in the bleachers at the Middle School wrestling tournament for six hours; my back muscles joined the party in a show of solidarity for their phalanges brethren. By Saturday night, I was mainlining Tylenol and throwing back Irish whiskey, in the form of Bailey's coffees. Fortunately, it was St. Patrick's day, when the practice of drinking numerous Irish whiskeys is encouraged, rather than frowned upon, whether or not one is in pain.
While I was drinking that coffee, I was cooking a big pot of corned beef and cabbage, which Hugh and The Teenager tore into upon returning from the volleyball tournament in Neighboring City. As we ate, Hugh filled me in on his conversation with the coach (he actually tried the nice approach. I'm so proud. Also, it helped about as much as we expected which is to say; not at all) and The Teenager described the scene that took place when the coach began kicking chairs and punting water bottles across the gym during a losing streak.
Yes. For realz.
I was expecting more of the same behavior on Sunday when I took The Teenager to the second day of the tournament but, in an odd twist; the coach acted as though she had never gone primal on gym furniture and like the girls were just her best friends in the world. I'm pretty sure she is bi-polar and I'm really happy she got her meds adjusted before Sunday.
Anyway, the girls lost their first tournament game and were eliminated quickly. The Teenager and I then hit the mall to purchase jewelry for prom and, we were home in record time, which was a blessing since Mother Nature chose yesterday to also join in solidarity with my fingers and back, delivering grinding menstrual cramps and a headache that almost made me forget the fact that I am missing several layers of skin from a rather important finger.
I should have bought stock in Tylenol.