Monday, April 17, 2006

Easter Day Massacre

My husband was going to make us brunch for Easter, but I decided to take over the brunch duties and make a chile egg puff, breakfast potatoes and bacon (yum!).

Easter day started off innocent enough -- my husband went to the gym, I made myself some coffee, watched a 2-week old episode of Starting Over, went through really old mail, and gave our kitties their Easter toys until it was time for me to start the egg puff.

I tried to plan it so that 10 minutes before the egg puff was done, I'd start cutting the potatoes. By the time I started on the potatoes, my husband was already home, with his nose stuck in the newspaper. Whiles I was cutting the potatoes into 1-inch cube pieces, I thought to myself, self, what would happen if I chopped off my finger? No, no...this was not something I wanted to do or planned to do, it was more of a wonder if I could do it with the knife I was using. I'm very accident prone as it is, so I've cut myself with this knife many times already. Never anything too serious, though.

So I continued to cut, my husband continued to read the newspaper (only 5 feet away from me), when I yelled, "F**K!, F**K!" and turned the kitchen water on. I had eyeballed my husband while screaming this expletive, and with the first one, he didn't turn around. With the second he finally did. He should know better, in my opinion, because I don't swear that much, and if I do, it either means I'm really mad or I've hurt myself.

I had managed through self-prophecy to almost cut off the tip of my pinky. I had cut right through half of the nail and part of the flesh next to the nail. While I had my finger under the running water, my husband ran around trying to get band-aids and that stuff one uses to clean wounds but it doesn't hurt when applied (can't remember the name of it at all, but it comes in a brown bottle).

That was when I looked over to the left, where I had been cutting potatoes. It looked like a miniature massacre had occurred. There was blood on the knife, blood on some of the potatoes, blood sprayed on the counter and wall, blood, blood and more blood. I told my husband to take a picture of it because it was too perfect of a scene to just clean up and forget about. It looked like a very small person got stabbed. He ignored me.

Right after that incident, I opened the cupboard door, right above the crime scene, and managed to jam the corner of the door into my neck. My husband asked what was wrong with me. I said I really didn't know. Luckily that didn't leave any lasting marks for I feared it would look like I had a big hickey on my neck.

So now I have to manage with a hurt pinky for a week or two. Which makes typing really fun. And that's pretty much what I do all day long.

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