There are about 50 newspaper employees standing outside of a Keys newspaper office being hosed down with bleach water as I write this.

Our VP called and told us to lock the doors.

I know it's probably all going to be a hoax, but this is getting a little bit freaky.

Not as freaky as what happened last night, though.

Last night...

I GOT STUNG BY A SCORPION.

Well, kinda.

I was cleaning, barefoot, cuz I soo durn smrt. Neal was out getting some groceries. As he pulled into the driveway, I just happened to be stepping close to the front door to toss something outside when I felt a

*BZZZT*

on my toe. It kind of stung, and kind of felt like an electric shock. Feeling someting under that foot, I slid it out and looked down.

It's always hard to identify a scorpion quickly, because they are just so damn WEIRD looking. But sure enough, that's what the fucker was.

What I'm Considering Telling People Happened Next:

I narrow my eyes at the little fucker, then mutter, "That was your last sting, bitch." I coolly grab a shoe and beat the hell out of the scorpion, then pick up its mangled body with my bare hands and toss it outside. After that, I slip on some sandals, toss on a jacket, and swagger outside to Neal in the car. He's proud of me when I describe my triumphant kill, but concerned about the sting. We go to the hospital, Neal talks to a nurse, and she tells me it will be OK.

What Actually Happened Next:

I yelp out a noise that sounds like Cindy Lauper caught in a garbage disposal. In a blind, hyperventilating panic, I run barefoot to the car wearing only giant boxer shorts that constantly fall down, and an old men's undershirt with no bra. (I was cleaning.) I frantically pound on the driver's side window until a startled and confused Neal rolls it down. Between gasps for oxygen, I manage to pant, "Scorpiongotme - Oh, God - Scorpiongotme." I should also mention that I've left the front door wide open, a cigarette in an ashtray, and the cat alone in the apartment with the scorpion.

Neal says, "OK, calm down and get in."

Since I'm not wearing any shoes, I don't want to talk around through the grass to the passenger side, so I kind of sit backwards on a once-again-startled-Neal's lap and start to scoot myself across, getting my legs tangled in the stick shift on the way. Still hyperventilating.

Neal tears down the road to the hospital, about 2 miles away. When we're about halfway there, I start to give him the state of the union.

Me: "My toe doesn't really hurt. It feels weird, but not painful."

Neal: "I want to take you in to be sure."

Me: "Yeah, but emergency rooms are expensive. I don't want to spend a fuckload of money on a scorpion scratch."

Neal: "What does it feel like?"

Me: "Well, it's a little weird. Not painful, but I'm really noticing my toe. Normally I'm barely aware it's even there."

Neal: "Tammie (neighbor) was stung by a scorpion, right?"

Me: "Yeah."

Neal: "Let's ask her to look at it."

After he makes a screaming U-turn and heads back to our street, I turn on the light and examine my toe. There are two teensy-tiny-little bumps. It just feels mildly funky.

Tammie isn't home.

Me: "Neal, there isn't really anything there. See? Just two little bumps."

Neal: "I'm not taking any chances."

On the way back to the hospital, we decide Neal will go in and tell them what's up. If they deem it necessary based on his description, I'll walk in. Well, he'll carry my shoeless self in.

The nurse says if it was a bad sting, there would be no doubt. It was just a scratch.

You know, I've only been stung by a bee once, and the stinger didn't go into my skin that time. I felt the affects of the poison and my hand swelled up a bit, but no stinger.

And now a scorpion millimeters from my toe nails me, and it barely breaks the skin.

Every guy I've ever been with tells me I have the softest skin he's ever felt, but there must be something tough under there. Like epidermis, then a layer of concrete and titanium. Maybe I'm like Wolverine, but instead of bones covered in metal, there's metal under my outer layer of skin.

You'd think I'd be heaver then, though.

Whatever the reason, I'm Like A Rock.

(Knock wood. Knock granite. Knock platinum. Whatever, just as long as I never ever get stung by one of those freaks of nature again.)