What to tell?

Not much is up really, kids.

This could be you! Just make sure you're on the winning end of a large bet if you decide to endeavor something this stupid.

My arm is (finally) back to its original size, and I have rekindled the peace and reinstated myself as benevolent ruler and Queen of all Waspy. Two of them crawled around on my neck yesterday, and I tried really hard not to freak out (they can smell fear, you know) and envision the ride to the hospital after the venom was injected directly into my jugular, and that seemed to work, as they eventually flew off. This is no doubt a sign that I’m back in the saddle. Next thing you know, I’ll be sporting a healthy Abe Lincoln beard of wasps and summoning them to do my bidding.

In other news, I have been on something of a cleaning binge during which I have made a rather shocking discovery: Unbeknownst to me, I have been running a paper fertility clinic out of my home, AND it turns out it’s been a raging success. There are no less than 2.2 billion pounds of junk mail, old bills, greeting cards, and a staggering amount of magazines stacked on every flat surface and in every imaginable corner of this place, and I’m 100% confident that stuff didn’t get in here by itself.

Not in the least.

It’s very clear what’s been going on right underneath my nose: Paper hanky panky.

That’s right. The junk mail, and in particular the magazines, have been procreating at an alarming and rabbit-like rate. How else could one explain 32 copies of Shape magazine?

I'm too lazy (and embarrassed?) to upload an image of my own pile, but this one - minus the Food TV magazine - is kind of accurate.

Meanwhile, and with very little regret, I’m systematically shutting down the orgy because – as it so happens – I don’t really need a Pottery Barn catalog from 2006 or a ten-year-old New Yorker. Hanging onto them probably seemed like a good idea  at the time, but I know better now.
Similarly, I don’t know about you, but whenever I wade through my copious piles of stuff, I start to feel rather passionately that I never want to buy anything ever again. I already have entirely too much. I have too much for three people. I may never move again simply because it’d be too much work to pack all this up. Let alone unpack it somewhere else. I feel tired just thinking about that. So let’s stop the madness right here and now and just call it a lifetime.

Naturally, those rational feelings will pass the next time I see a great pair of jeans or boots or a book I’ve been wanting to read (and don’t get me started on this dark gray corduroy motorcycle jacket I can’t stop thinking about), but for the moment, I’m going to savor the Zen possibilities of calling it quits and enjoy the temporary sight of my unadorned dining room table, night stand, and desk.

Who knew my desk was brown???

The mind boggles…

That has nothing to do with anything.

I just thought it was a good title, and realized I’d probably never have a legitimate reason to use it, and figured a whining post about my circus freak, insanely huge and wildly painful, venom-filled arm was as good a cause as any.

This morning I awoke with one crushing realization: I cannot move my right arm.

One of these things is not like the other... (check out the difference in my wrists!!!)

I cannot bend it.

I cannot make a fist.

I cannot hold a knife or a pen or even type.

And, god help me, it hurts like a mofo.

What kind of supernatural venom was in that wasp anyway!?!?!

Something godawful, that’s for sure.

So what’s a newly crafted left-hander to do? Hit up Google for bad advice on home remedies, that’s what!!!

First I read that apple cider vinegar would make the swelling go down. Apparently venom is alkaline and vinegar is acidic and blah blah blah…enter wishful, stinky thinking. After two hours of this, my arm reeked so bad I could barely stand myself.

One shower later, I went back to the bullsh*t drawing board.

What’s that?
Lemons?
Lemon will reduce the swelling and neutralize the venom!?

Lemons do NOT reduce swelling. Lemons do nothing but sting.

Bring on the lemons!!!!

Well, let me break it down for you: Fresh lemon juice squeezed all over yourself does NOTHING but burn like hell and get sticky.

I spent the better part of the day basting myself like a filet of halibut.

So I would know.

Once your arm turns into a fleshy wiffle ball bat, it’s pretty much just a waiting game (and – long story that I won’t get into – my dentist tells me it’s a three-day waiting game.) Save the lemons and leave the vinegar in the bottle.

Thus, after trying to undo this painful and ridiculous situation, what I eventually had to admit to myself (lamentably) was that I got it all wrong: Here I fancied myself some kind of benevolent wasp ruler, their magnanimous and beneficent queen. I’ve rescued no less than 30 of them from the pool, and felt a certain amount of pride at our ‘bond.’

I was one of them – if only in spirit – and they respected me on that level.

But today?

Lugging my useless freak arm around and trying to ignore the pain?

Realizing I was unable to hold a pen or – god forbid – cut up an onion with the now-useless limb? Being forced to brace my arm against my stomach in order to carry my purse?

Yeah, baby.

F-CK YOU, WASPS!!!

This relationship is 0-v-e-r. You are as good as dead to me, Waspy.

See other people. Screw other people. Sting other people.

Just don’t come around here no more.

Or say hello to my little friend…Raid Wasp & Hornet Killer 33.

p.s.

Mark, there was only one ray of light in my life this morning: The news that wasp stings rendered your arm a sperm whale.

Not that I wish you harm, it was just reassurance that I wasn’t going to die, and a metaphorical pat on the back that I have it bad…but someone has it even worse than me. Cheers!

Here’s hoping the super dose of venom gives up super powers!

(Like the power to congregate in large groups in fields of weeds… Hmmm….)