Last week I blogged we were hosting a party for our families to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. And if I was being honest, my predictions of shining in all my awkward glory came true. Woohoo! (Woohoo?) JD–per usual–was his calm, charming self and I ran around refilling drinks and passing appetizers like I was a desperate waitress at Chili's. My little sister, Zoe Belle, pulled me aside and asked me to relax because my pacing back and forth was driving her crazy.

It took me hugging 21 family members to calm down and rest in the moment. JD took my hand and we floated in our backyard, surrounded by those we love/need the most.

I'll be sharing more photos soon (many thanks to my assistant, Tami Paige, for this one!), but let's get into the glamorous part of the evening: driving to urgent care at 4 a.m..

At 3:45 a.m. I woke to the feeling of being burned. I dreamt I was tanning on the beach until I scratched myself awake. My head, arms, legs, toes, fingers wouldn't stop itching. In the light of our bathroom, I realized I was covered in hives so serious my eyelids were puffed closed. Apparently, I was allergic to something I ate at the party. #HostessWithTheMostess

On our way home from urgent care, JD held my hand and I told him I finally had proof. Proof of what, he asked. “This is proof I'm allergic to parties.”