So.

I am an idiot.

I (predictably) blame the fetus.

Yesterday, I was stung by a bee. This resulted two things: a very lopsided gait and frequently having to respond to the question, “How the hell did you manage to find a bee in 30 degree weather?”

Answer? Mad skillz. I was getting the nursery ready for painting and unrolled the giant drop cloth we keep in our garage, unleashing a ginormous yellow jacket. The lethargic, mid-hibernation, really-freaking-big bee proceeded to crawl across my floor.

What happened next is a matter of great debate.

I say the bastard stung me. Ryan says I inadvertently skewered myself with a semi-mobile (and probably sleep-walking) bee’s half-erect stinger. This is, apparently, the equivalent of impaling myself on a pencil and blaming the pencil. Po-tay-to, pot-ah-to. I think Ryan’s just trying to justify letting the six-legged devil’s minion live.

Act of aggression or merely the combo of my weight and his stinger, the damn thing still packed a punch. The bottom of my foot is all swollen and itchy and is driving me insane. I, being a child of the sprawling metropolis of Oregon’s great capital, remedy this by smothering the bite in Cortaid or some other OTC drug that comes in a tube. Ryan, a child of Hicksville, WA, solves my crisis by mixing together things from the cupboard like some witchdoctor-cum-Rachel Ray. Don’t tell the drug companies, but his was totally the better solution.

This is how I wound up at my parent’s house for weekly family feast, propped on a recliner and dousing my foot in a baking soda and vinegar mixture. All would have been well and good had I not needed to personally apply a fresh coat after dinner…. and had Mother not made carrot cake cupcakes for dessert.

Really, I shouldn’t be held responsible. They were in identical bowls and the color was exactly the same. I swear.

I was thinking, “Dang, the second coat is going on much more smoothly. Maybe I should always make it an hour before and let it sit?”

This was immediately followed by, “Why won’t the dogs leave me alone?”

So, in case you were wondering, cream cheese frosting does not ease the itch of a bee sting. Ganache has yet to be tested. (Though I’m sure some day I’ll get there. *facepalm*)

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By this point, you all know that I have the willpower of a tiny, willpowerless thing. The wee fetus, however, is very powerful motivation to step it up a notch. I want so much to be a good oven. So I flexed, took a deep breath, bought some healthy cook books and I was ready!

...I have not opened the cookbooks. I continue to eat ice cream, have on occasion avoided my required leafy greens, and (predictably) am woefully bad about my exercise regime (I'm telling you, the trapeze lady is CRAZY).

In spite of this, I tell myself I'm not a horrible person. I listen as my coworker informs me without the slightest remorse that she smoked throughout her three pregnancies and each of her young brood have only one head and all of their ten respective fingers and toes. A woman on the third floor reports that she drank Mountain Dew exclusively and liberally, and my grandma, when we discussed pregnancy cravings, stated dramatically, "I had to have rum and coke. Every day at least once a day. And I don't even like rum."

See? I'm so much better than that! I may have had pizza for dinner, but I don't shoot tequila while smoking a cigar. And, and I'm strictly adhering to the "consume nothing bad for the baby" rule. (Except the aforementioned ice cream, of course.) I don't drink caffeine, I will not inhale while walking by a smoker, I turn away alcohol, and I ignore all french cheeses.

Last week came the first true test of my will: the common cold.

During my sickness, I adamantly refused to take medication. I read every label religiously. I tell you, there is nothing you can take without consulting with a doctor. Dayquil? No. Vitamin C? No. You can't even inhale VapoRub without somebody's permission. (Come to think of it, I should check the label on my Chapstick.)

After hearing me whine watching me suffer, Lauren told me I was a loon and tried to sneakily rub me down with Vicks, but I resisted. There was even a covert call placed to the pharmacist to make sure there was nothing I could take. She confirmed. No meds for me!

Life without Dayquil? I... I don't even know how describe the misery (but Ryan could probably describe to you how miserable I was to live with - just a guess). I am now considering building a shrine to that little orange liquid cap just so it knows how much I worship it. (Though that crazy buzz that I usually have when I'm sick? Apparently not the meds. Perhaps its a mucus high?) And no Nyquil? *whimper*

I am adding this to my list of things they don't warn you about when pregnant. 1) The damn thing won't stop kicking. Ever. 2) Colds and flus feel similar to what I imagine it would feel like to suffer through a plague and die a slow and miserable death.

I totally should have kicked Ryan out of bed when he started sneezing.

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