Ham-handedness

We interrupt the regular programming to talk about ham-handedness.  That would be me, being ham-handed, ever since yesterday when my weed pulling was rudely interrupted by one or maybe two painful wasp stings on my index finger. I think painful is the only kind of wasp sting there is.

Today I have a very fat hand, with the skin stretched tight, and looking shiny and pink.  It also feels hot to the touch and is still painful, as I discovered when I unthinkingly slapped a mosquito that landed there.

Those tall weeds along the edge of the driveway finally reached the top of the priority list yesterday and I donned the nice lightweight, strong work gloves Grant gave me for Christmas and I made war on those ugly prickly weeds whose name I can't remember.  The ground was already getting a bit too dry to make pulling them really easy, but I persevered, reaching in bravely among the prickles and then leaning backward into the pull to dislodge them.

I never saw those wasps till after I felt them.  I still don't know where they came from.  I only know that when I jerked my gloved hand back and flapped my hand wildly, two wasps flew away.  I was in too much pain to pursue them.  I hurried indoors.  An onion?  Benadryl?  Ice?  All three, I decided.  I kept switching off when it got too painful not to do something.  I wished I had some of that medicinal charcoal on hand.  I'll have to ask Rhoda where she got hers.  My hand hurt for hours.

If you're ever around someone that gets stung by a wasp, don't accuse them of over-reacting to the sting.  Within one week's time I've been stung by both a Carpenter Bee and a wasp, and the wasp sting was far, far worse.  No one was around to witness my dramatics, but if they had been, I suspect they might have been suspicious that I was over-reacting.  Not so.  Not me. . . .