Last week while I was cooking dessert for my catering gig while babysitting a dessert called "chocolate decadence" that needed to bake for about eleven hundred hours I decided to do the dishes. I finished the dishes and the cake was still not done so I decided to put them away. The very last thing I grabbed was the blade that goes inside the food processor.
I sliced my pinky finger open.
LIKE WAY OPEN
Like blood dripping all over the kitchen and clean dishes and clean counters. This is where I should mention that I've never asked my boss where the bandaids were so I was running around with a giant paper towel wrapped around my finger.
The cake was done.
This is where I should mention that the cake was one of those things you have to put in a pan, but then put the pan inside a broiler pan full of water to prevent your cake (that was later called exquisite at a party that week) from cracking on top. So I have my hand wrapped up in a paper towel and my other hand in an oven mitt and I reach in to grab the first pan and the paper toweled hand slips and the next thing I know I've burned my wrist ON THE OTHER HAND.
But because that wasn't enough, while I was struggling to get the first pan out of the pan of SCALDING HOT BURNING WATER I burned my finger tips in the water.
In three minutes I sliced a finger, burned my wrist and burned my finger tips.
Thank god it turned out "exquisite" right?
Two days later I'm sitting at home and my pinky is healing nicely when I notice some dirt on my heavy ass down couch cushion. I picked it up and went to shake it and to be honest I'm not sure what exactly happened but suddenly the cushion wasn't in my hand anymore and I was bent over trying my hardest not to cry because there was now blood gushing out from UNDER my fingernails.
UNDER THE NAILS.
I had bent them back farther then I knew possible. It was bad. I was kind of frozen just thinking.."don't cry, don't cry, don't cry."
Three days later my fingers are still bruised, sore and the little one starts bleeding if I type too much.
Then today my mom asked me what the bruise on my arm was. I looked down and I couldn't even answer her.
(I hate not knowing where a bruise came from)
I laughed about all my owies and said I had no clue.
But tonight in the shower I remembered.
Last night, walking up the stairs I fell.
Let's say that again….
I FELL UP THE STAIRS.
My husband laughed at me. Then looked at me wondering how in the hell I fell up the stairs. Then when I complained that it really did hurt he laughed more and called me his, "special little girl." I tried to no avail to show him the scrape (there was a scrape) to prove that I really had gotten hurt. He didn't believe me.
But today…TODAY!!!! There was a bruise.
So I give up. I need adult supervision or something. Or a padded room. Or….I don't know, but I need to stop. Because this shit hurts people. How about you, have any of you had any rad owies lately. Tell me about them.*
*Unless they involve puss, or things that will make my boobies tingle from reading about your pain…then don't tell me.