Photo stolen from KitchenStuffPlus.com.
...fingertips, that is.
If you know me, you know that I'm a class-A klutz.
That's why this post is being typed with 9 fingers instead of 10.
In an effort to make sure that my husband has hearty, healthy meals, I bought a shit-ton (yes, that is a unit of measurement) of summer squash and zucchini. The best way to quickly get perfect slices is to use a mandolin slicer.
If you've never seen one, they look like a guillotine that fits on your countertop (see above).
Oh, the irony.
I decide that I don't need the guard because it usually just gets in the way and what I was slicing was easier to just hold.
WRONG.
The more I slice, the more speed I gain. I got into a rhythm.
BIG MISTAKE.
I got cocky.
BAD IDEA.
Suddenly, it happens.
Before I feel anything, before the blood begins to flow from my finger, I realize what I've done and my brain says, "Whooooaaa, Lady, we can't handle this--we're out."
I keep my bloody hand in the sink while hanging my head down toward my knees.
"I cut myself..." I push from between my lips. "I'm going dowwwnnn..."
DH jumps up and wraps a paper towel around my fingers so I can get horizontal and get my feet up.
You can tell how much your spouse loves you by how they react in a situation like this and mine was PERFECT.
He was a little scared--he called urgent care offices even though I told him I wasn't going to one.
He bandaged up my bloody finger even though he was scared he was doing it wrong.
(A piece of advice: Enough tape will stop any amount of bleeding. No experience required.)
He dealt with the mess I made in the kitchen and called the Chinese man to make a late night delivery of dumplings and chicken fried rice.
He made me laugh about the situation...kinda.
As I was laying in the floor trying to un-wooz my head, he called from the kitchen--"Hey! I found the chunk of your finger! Wanna see it?"
Umm, yeah, no. I think I'm gonna die.
Anytime I stirred in the night, he said, "How's your finger?" from the fog of a dead sleep.
It's healing nicely, but one side of my finger comes to a point now...
I've said it many times before and I'll say it many times again--I should have orange cones that perpetually circle my body. I am an accident waiting to happen at any moment.
Thankfully, I have darling people around me who take care of me and love me when my awkwardness leads to an injury.
If you know me, you know that I'm a class-A klutz.
That's why this post is being typed with 9 fingers instead of 10.
In an effort to make sure that my husband has hearty, healthy meals, I bought a shit-ton (yes, that is a unit of measurement) of summer squash and zucchini. The best way to quickly get perfect slices is to use a mandolin slicer.
If you've never seen one, they look like a guillotine that fits on your countertop (see above).
Oh, the irony.
I decide that I don't need the guard because it usually just gets in the way and what I was slicing was easier to just hold.
WRONG.
The more I slice, the more speed I gain. I got into a rhythm.
BIG MISTAKE.
I got cocky.
BAD IDEA.
Suddenly, it happens.
Before I feel anything, before the blood begins to flow from my finger, I realize what I've done and my brain says, "Whooooaaa, Lady, we can't handle this--we're out."
I keep my bloody hand in the sink while hanging my head down toward my knees.
"I cut myself..." I push from between my lips. "I'm going dowwwnnn..."
DH jumps up and wraps a paper towel around my fingers so I can get horizontal and get my feet up.
You can tell how much your spouse loves you by how they react in a situation like this and mine was PERFECT.
He was a little scared--he called urgent care offices even though I told him I wasn't going to one.
He bandaged up my bloody finger even though he was scared he was doing it wrong.
(A piece of advice: Enough tape will stop any amount of bleeding. No experience required.)
He dealt with the mess I made in the kitchen and called the Chinese man to make a late night delivery of dumplings and chicken fried rice.
He made me laugh about the situation...kinda.
As I was laying in the floor trying to un-wooz my head, he called from the kitchen--"Hey! I found the chunk of your finger! Wanna see it?"
Umm, yeah, no. I think I'm gonna die.
Anytime I stirred in the night, he said, "How's your finger?" from the fog of a dead sleep.
It's healing nicely, but one side of my finger comes to a point now...
I've said it many times before and I'll say it many times again--I should have orange cones that perpetually circle my body. I am an accident waiting to happen at any moment.
Thankfully, I have darling people around me who take care of me and love me when my awkwardness leads to an injury.
