Zen and the Art of Knife Juggling
FH and I got tons of work done this weekend, but ran into a myriad of snags and so, I'm still a woman without a country. The spare room got cleaned out, the wall came down, all the wiring was finished, a new rug was put in the spare room, a bookcase was assembled, furniture was moved, the shower door was replaced (NOT by the glass guy, he cancelled at the last minute!) All in all, things are creeping into a state of readiness for the onslaught of my books, and shoes, and books, and boots, and books, and HABAs (health and beauty aids).
We managed to get the place looking good enough for dinner with his friends. All was going well, the sangria was flowing the meal was on the table, I was just cutting the bread when the bread knife slipped and I tried to catch it. WITH MY FINGER!!
Yes ladies, I managed to lop off the tip of my right index finger! Well, I didn't lop it off entirely, but there's a gross little flap of skin still attached out of sheer spite and stupidity.
So copious amounts of blood are spilling from my wounded finger and I see FH go white. He's very squeamish about blood so I turn to block his view from my RIVER OF BLOOD! His electrician friend (who was a boy-scout too and will now be referred to as BoyScout herein) rushes over and yanks me to the sink to before I, you know, BLEED TO DEATH!! The whole time BoyScout is cleaning my wound and putting pressure and ice on it I'm blocking FH so he can't see! He sees the blood all over the bread knife on the floor and starts insisting we go to the ER to get stitches. I freak out because I've never had stitches and everyone just got there and dinner is ready and I want a glass of sangria and for the love of god make my finger stop bleeding!!
BoyScout cleans it out and sits me down at the table with an ice pack pressed against it and tells me to keep it elevated above my heart. So I sat through dinner with my right hand on my head, trying not look like a spaz while eating with my left hand. Oh, and FH had to cut my chicken for me.
After dinner BoyScout takes me into the bathrom to bandage it. We're standing at the sink and he's about to put the ointment and band-aid on when he hesitates.
'What's wrong,' I say with just a hint of panic in my voice.
'It's the nail,' he says, 'It has to come off.'
'My nail is going to FALL OFF!'
'No, you have to cut it.' and his face is so grave and serious I nearly fell over laughing!
'oh, okay.' and I clipped that bad boy off.
The rest of the night was spent laughing at my spurting blood, FH doing all the dishes and babying me, drinking sangria and generally being drunken idiots.
Now I'm just afraid that my finger will fall off with some gangrenous infection. Meanwhile, I'm hyper-aware of all of my hand movements and a clumsy fool without full use of my right hand.
Ah, good times.
We managed to get the place looking good enough for dinner with his friends. All was going well, the sangria was flowing the meal was on the table, I was just cutting the bread when the bread knife slipped and I tried to catch it. WITH MY FINGER!!
Yes ladies, I managed to lop off the tip of my right index finger! Well, I didn't lop it off entirely, but there's a gross little flap of skin still attached out of sheer spite and stupidity.
So copious amounts of blood are spilling from my wounded finger and I see FH go white. He's very squeamish about blood so I turn to block his view from my RIVER OF BLOOD! His electrician friend (who was a boy-scout too and will now be referred to as BoyScout herein) rushes over and yanks me to the sink to before I, you know, BLEED TO DEATH!! The whole time BoyScout is cleaning my wound and putting pressure and ice on it I'm blocking FH so he can't see! He sees the blood all over the bread knife on the floor and starts insisting we go to the ER to get stitches. I freak out because I've never had stitches and everyone just got there and dinner is ready and I want a glass of sangria and for the love of god make my finger stop bleeding!!
BoyScout cleans it out and sits me down at the table with an ice pack pressed against it and tells me to keep it elevated above my heart. So I sat through dinner with my right hand on my head, trying not look like a spaz while eating with my left hand. Oh, and FH had to cut my chicken for me.
After dinner BoyScout takes me into the bathrom to bandage it. We're standing at the sink and he's about to put the ointment and band-aid on when he hesitates.
'What's wrong,' I say with just a hint of panic in my voice.
'It's the nail,' he says, 'It has to come off.'
'My nail is going to FALL OFF!'
'No, you have to cut it.' and his face is so grave and serious I nearly fell over laughing!
'oh, okay.' and I clipped that bad boy off.
The rest of the night was spent laughing at my spurting blood, FH doing all the dishes and babying me, drinking sangria and generally being drunken idiots.
Now I'm just afraid that my finger will fall off with some gangrenous infection. Meanwhile, I'm hyper-aware of all of my hand movements and a clumsy fool without full use of my right hand.
Ah, good times.
