E. walked down to the "Village", as she likes to call Columbia City, to pick up some lunch today, and on her way back was stung by bees 4X, all on the back of one leg. She came in the back door yelling bloody-bee-murder, and I grabbed a box of baking soda and made a paste, and helped her slather it on her skin (jeans dropped to the floor!).
O gawd we were laughing amidst her fiery, swelling welts, and she didn't want to put her jeans back on (they were rather snug) so she grabbed a bathrobe from the back of the bathroom door (it's not every workspace that sports bathrobes on bathroom doors), ate her lunch standing up, then finally settled down onto a chair, most uncomfortable with bee stings on her backside.
Bee stings + baking soda + bathrobe = boundless bwah-ha-ha.
We listened to some Rimsky-Korsakov....
....but only for a short time, because E. said the music made the stings hurt even more.
And then M. came in from sandblasting and there's E. sitting at the table wearing her bathrobe.
Zany, I tell you.