In which your humble narrator freaks out Wife-a-roo.
Thursday night, while preparing dinner after a long day of finding a leak in the new roof and discovering that it turns out we're going to need to replace our 33-year-old furnace or face the consequences of freezing to death, I was hunting for the can opener. Actually we have two can openers, the good one and the crappy one. To make it more interesting, they look exactly the same. One of them (Ol' Reliable) is a little heavier and actually opens cans. The other one (Seamus McPieceofcrap) lurches around the edge of the can like a drunken Irishman frequently popping off (see drunken Irishmen) and then bursting into a tuneless version of 'Danny Boy."
I couldn't find Ol' Reliable and was using Seamus to open up a can of crushed tomatoes and he did his usual terrible job, leaving two connections between lid and sides preventing me from accessing the delicious tomatoes contained within the can. Using the special 'moron center' of my brain, I resolved to just push down on one side to free the lid. And so I did, resulting in me neatly producing a little deli slice off the side of my left index finger. Being an incompetent clotter (I'm not a hemophiliac or anything, it just takes a long time) I clamped my thumb over the cut and raised my hand over my head.
"Shit," said I, "I cut myself." Wife-a-roo was at the kitchen sink. She whirled around and did her frightened muppet noise and started sputtering, "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," which seemed a bit melodramatic.
It was then that I realized my left hand was covered in a tiny, tiny amount of blood and a copious amount of crushed tomatoes.
For the record, I feel that it is important to note, that The Hubster (still searching for an appropriate alias) has a bit of a history of injury understatement. On another Friday night several years ago, before the birth of either of our children, we were doing what we often did on Friday nights. I was cooking something, while The Hubster was trying to hang drapes in the living room. At some point he made some sort of noise to attract my attention. and then said "Shit, I seem to have hurt myself, sort of badly." Note the lack of exclamation points.
ReplyDeleteTurns out that the noise I had heard several moments earlier, had been the sound of the drill falling onto the couch, which it did when the drill bit snapped in half, and The Hubster had to let go of the drill in order to use that hand to unscrew the bit from a finger on the other hand. He thought that would lead to less tearing.