My Kitchen is a Death Trap

As we were getting ready for our camping trip, I asked Alex to put the ice chest against the wall. Typical Alex, he decides his way was better, and set it next to the fridge. Later that night, as I'm leaving the kitchen in the dark (the decidedly moronic placement of the light switch is a factor here), I trip over the ice chest, and the handle leaves a 3 inch scrape/bruise down my shin.
Earlier that day, I branded my arm with a cookie sheet, leaving some nice, borderline 2nd degree blisters.
The next day I opened the drawer where we keep all of our kitchen "tools" like spatulas, tongs, etc. The drawer came out all the way, the corner tagged my foot, and the utensils went spilling out onto the floor. I practically threw Keturah to Matt so I could collapse on the floor. It took about 10 seconds to swell up.

The mountain on my foot:

Matt was just leaving for a half day of psychiatry, so I had to finish getting stuff together and load up the van with this beast. Alex and Bekah pretty much did it all. They were awesome.
Anyway, after the swelling went down, my foot took on a lovely purple color.

Then Alex fell on me and his elbow landed right on the jackpot. It swelled up again, though not to same majestic heights as before. This picture was before the elbow, and I had another one similar to it. I asked Matt which one was worse. He said, "Neither. Do you have a picture post-Alex?"

So that is the explanation of how my kitchen is trying to kill me. Or maybe I'm just the 4th stooge. Considering I rolled my ankle and crashed a grocery cart head-on into a pole on two separate occasions, all within the last couple weeks, I'd go with the clumsy theory. Where would I be without 12 years of ballet? I don't even want to know.

Sorry for all the foot pictures. Less than aesthetically appealing, but it had to be done.