Ha. Lovely, poetic, somewhat hypothetical question. To which I have a pungent, painful and not in the least hypothetical answer. In my thumb. Death is stinging me in my thumb, my thumb is dying, I am not kidding you.
So after a lovely sunny day yesterday, in which I even managed a quick trip to Al's Garden Center, an experience of orgasmic proportions on a sunny day, today the clouds were back. Yesterday I was in shirtsleeves, today it is hailing and snowing again. And raining. All in the span of a few minutes. Again. So as you might imagine, with the whole snow and hail thing, it is a bit cooler. Again. So I decided it would be lovely to make a fire in the woodstove, if I could get it to stop being cantankerous and draw worth a damn.
Enter my friend Rod, woodstove zen master. He even has the same exact stove as mine. He dropped by, to see if he could help figure out the new airflow problem. He brought an axe. Now there are not a lot of men I would be comfortable showing up at my house with an axe, but Rod is one of them. So not only did he educate me on the finer points of my stove, he tightened a screw on the door handle (while pointing out it was mounted upside down), and then went out to my woodshed with me and split wood. I am not kidding. I didn't know men even still did this, it was awesome. Life is good when a nice man with an axe shows up at your house and splits wood.
Armed (literally, our arms were full) with logs and split kindling, we went in to tame the beast. I thought I was a pretty decent firestarter, but Rod elevated it to an art form. It was great. And now that I know about the thermometer on the top of my stove, and how hot it is supposed to be, I realize my fires were just little baby fires, practice fires, not really house heating fires. Flame on.
So the fire was blazing, the stove was functioning, I had my instructions on when and how to add wood, and Rod went home. I went about my business of the evening with an occasional eye on the fire. When it looked like the middle had fallen in like it was supposed to, I opened the door to add wood. I reached down and grabbed a nice chunk from my cool brass woodholder thing, and instantly was in searing agony. Amazing agony. Agony that takes your mind to another plane, where half of your brain is screaming obscenities and the other half is cooly marveling at how something can actually feel that exquisitely bad. Right in the little thin web of skin at the base of my right thumb, it was total Armageddon. In other words, a yellow jacket.
My devoted readers may recall the entries from last summer about the yellow jackets and our efforts - largely unsuccessful - to eradicate them. I am quite sure this was a sole survivor of some little group of yellow jacket cronies who has been lying in wait for months for the opportunity to extract revenge. In my WOODSHED? In the WINTER? While it is HAILING? Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!!? Don't these damn things ever die, or at least hibernate?
It is actually quite stressful to hurt that bad. You want to peel your skin off or jump out a window or plunge your hand into a tub of ice (which for me is usually as appealing as the other two). I have only hurt that bad one other time, when I suffered a severe burn on my same hand from steam coming out of a kettle. I remember plunging my hand into ice, screaming because that hurt so bad (I have Reynaud's) so pulling it out, then the burn hurting so bad I plunged it back in, doing all this while rolling on the floor clearly entering another plane of consciousness. And no, I am NOT a wimp. Can you say 11 pound babies and no epidural??? But this is sudden, exquisite pain that takes your breath quite literally away.
I sought chocolate. I know there are those of you out there who will understand. Chocolate is a perfectly appropriate stress response. I am a doctor, I should know. Trust me. So I alternated running my hand under REALLY cold water, cursing, and eating chocolate dipped wafer cookies until I could breathe fairly normally and think rationally.
Now I think I will go get a pair of forceps, pick up the yellowjacket who is still faintly writhing on my living room floor after my stomping on him and thwapping him with my slipper, and throw his detestable self into the fire, a burnt offering to the gods of pain.
And in case you wondered, I typed this mostly one-handed, thanks for asking. Because writing is the next best thing after chocolate as a stress response. Besides, of course, Margaritas, which I do not have the wherewithal to make. But if anyone feels like bringing their blender over, I won't stop you.
DAMN it hurts!!!