Battle Scars

I'm all maimed and mangled. Physically, if not emotionally (boo-hoo, chorva...).

I hacked off a panel of finger flesh with an extra-sharp Solingen while cooking for Antoine a few days ago - it's still a little raw and sometimes itchy under the Band-Aid I use to keep the skin from flapping about. Although I bled copiously that night, it didn't actually quite hurt all that much - just like when I soaked up several rags' worth when I accidentally cut myself in front of my Mom a little while back (she could only watch, horrified, as the towel I used to tourniquet my finger with started to turn crimson; in the meantime, I went on with my chismis and kwento as if the life were not flowing out of me). I've had to stock up on Band-Aids lately because getting the blood out of white kitchen towels isn't much fun, and since the Montalban kids wiped out my first-aid kit bandage supply the last time I was up there.

But anyway. Haven't been doing well in the safety department lately, especially in the kitchen. Last night, I roasted some chicken thighs for our partners' dinner and, in an attempt to check for done-ness, managed to er, accidentally juggle a heavy and very hot Pyrex pan full of poultry and potatoes, with my bare hands. Ouch. Good thing the Solingen wound hurt more than the first degree burns.

Later, while I was putting away the silver, I cut myself again - on the finger next to the Solingen casualty, with a dinner knife - for crying out loud. I almost sawed my hand off. At least the knife was Oneida; Oneida, Solingen - if you're going to be injured, better do it with style.

And oh of course, I forgot to mention that, after a long drive down from BC and a few glasses of wine with the best friends (plus a heated discussion on "dysfunctionality" and "I can't believe you're such a jerk, Jerk!" - the kind of discussions you can only have with Miles and Ney and still love and be loved in the morning), I crashed in exhaustion on my adopted "bed," only to wake up past 4:00 on Monday morning. And because I vaguely remembered having promised my Mom I'd be home at midnight, I drove home on auto pilot, sick, hoarse, tired... and upon arrival at home base before sunrise, I managed to bang the car door against my face. Hard. Ouch to the nth degree. It was so bad that I thought I'd be wearing instant black eyeshadow the next day, but the only evidence of that embarassing mishap is a little bloody cut right below my left eye. I may not have a black eye, but I still look like I was in a fist fight...with a car door. And the car door won.

I haven't been this klutzy since puberty. Spirit of Amats, begone! Heh heh ha ha hu hu hu hu...