Come On, MAN!

Remember the stomach flu? For my birthday? Well, ha ha on those who thought things could only go up from there, because I had to go to the ER yesterday. I was off for MLK day, joyfully putzing in peace because The Boy went snow tubing with a friend while I waited at home for my new dishwasher to be delivered. I put away books, did a little cleaning, and vacuumed and steamed my old couches so my cat-allergic brother-in-law could take them to my sister's house to make room for my new sectional, which is coming today.

So, busy, happy, fiddling around while listening to my audio book . . . greeting the punctual delivery guys from Sears with great happiness, because: DISHWASHER. (It's nearly impossible to make the kitchen feel clean without a dishwasher, unless you do dishes constantly, which . . . No.) So the guys used their fancy straps and truss system to hike the big box into the house, and I told them they could leave it in the living room, since a portable dishwasher has wheels and I am more than capable of pushing the thing the fifteen or so feet into the kitchen.

They shook hands and left me to my giant box. I followed the opening instructions pictured right on the outside, using my kitchen scissors as a box cutter because I was too impatient for DISHWASHER to go to the tool box in search of the utility knife. It's pretty obvious where this is going, isn't it? I held the scissors open, using one blade to drag along the edges that needed cutting, being SUPER careful of the other blade, and not paying any attention at all to the weird little chomper things in the middle of the scissors. Do you know what I'm talking about? Here's a visual aid, because I have no idea what the actual name is, or what the chompers are for:



Yeah, those jagged little things ripped into my right middle finger, and BOY did I bleed. I ran into the kitchen to hold my finger in cold water, and watched a little horrified as the blood and water splashed everywhere. Then I wrapped the finger in an old linen napkin, because I didn't want to have to deal with picking pits of paper from the wound like you have to do when you use a paper towel. I held my finger up, applying direct pressure like a good girl, and I paced around, fretting and waiting for it to stop bleeding and stop hurting like a bitch. I wandered into the living room, wondering how I was going to get to the ER if I was going to need stitches (because my car was at the garage getting its annual state inspection), when I noticed this on the wall:



It wraps around the corner, even! Like something out of a murder movie! So! Blood spattered on the wall is good evidence that perhaps medical treatment is necessary. My b-i-l drove me the mile to pick up my car (I couldn't stomach the idea of walking with my stupid middle finger wrapped in a napkin, bleeding like a fool. Plus, I couldn't put on my coat over the mess, and didn't want to bleed on it, anyway.

So I paid for my car with one hand, and drove to the ER with my right hand held aloft. I would have been flipping everyone the bird, but you couldn't really tell because of the big napkin. In fact, it kind of looked like I was carrying an unlit torch. Nice.

Happily, the ER wasn't busy, and I was in and out in no time. There were two cuts rather than one. I was complimented on the way I managed the bleeding (you can't be the daughter and granddaughter of nurses without being up on your first-aid skills), had my wounds glued, with assurance that I had only nicked a superficial nerve and would soon have all the feeling back in the pad of the finger tip, and then sent on my way.

The blood on the walls cleaned up easily--I was kind of expecting to have to rely on the devil's magic in the Mr. Clean eraser thing, but a Clorox wipe handled the job with aplomb. The Boy came home, C came over bearing pizzas to make up for my aborted birthday dinner, P came with a posy and a charming story about being barked at by one half of a feuding couple at the movies, and all was well.