Saturday, April 14, 2012

Sunday Bloody Sunday, or My New $1000 Food Processor

I couldn't decide on a title.  So you get two.  Just because I have an abundance of love for you all.  (Or I'm just wordy.)

And as thought-provoking as the first title is, this post is not about U2's international hit or the political machinations and the horrific death toll that inspired it all those long years ago in Ireland.  (And if I've already lost you, that's okay...I'm totally asleep right now so you're just lucky I'm blogging this at all.  LUCKY!)

But then, you might have already guessed that from the second title.

Okay what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, the day I almost got kicked out of a restaurant.  Because of Mr. Eggshells.  Who won't admit it was his fault, even though it totally was.  And then to prove it I had to cut my finger off.  Well not off, but a lot.  Well not a lot, but some.  It HURT, darn it!

It all started with breakfast.  We went out to the local diner to get a good portion of breakfast-y with a normal sane breakfast omelette and Mr. with some totally disgusting raw hunk of meat and fried eggs.  *shudder*  We've stayed married this long by a) his only having that kind of meal at restaurants and b) my staring adoringly into his eyes so I don't catch sight of that food at any point during its consumption.

Anyhow, there we were at breakfast and, after having eaten, were finishing our drinks.  The empty plates were toward the edge of the table, and the waitress came by and double-checked with me before picking up my plate, completely ignoring Mr's absolutely empty plate.

A little disconcerted, Mr. moved the plate closer to the edge of the table.  Another waitress came by and took my now-empty toast plate from the table, completely ignoring his plate again.  As she left, the look on his face was priceless, and so like any good wife, I laughed at with him.  He held up his hand to make sure he wasn't invisible, and then told me what was going on.

"They've been to my website:  Keep your hands off my plate, bitch."

My giggling was getting harder at that, since between that and the face he was making, it was so so funny.  And then he sealed it, by saying after the perfect amount of pause for effect:

"dot com"

I LOST IT.   Completely.  I was laughing so hard I was crying, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the busy place.  Mr. was looking more and more like he wanted to bolt and leave me to my solo embarrassment.   This went on for several minutes until I got myself under control. 

And just as I did, it was at that moment that our waitress came by and without even stopping or commenting, picked up his plate.

I looked at Mr. and he looked at me.

"She's not online."

I lost it AGAIN, and Mr. got up to pay the bill.    


So later that day, we were doing the usual Sunday home stuff and my old friend, "accident" decided to pay us a visit.  It was while I was happily and FINALLY getting to play with my post-Christmas food processor.  I'd made pesto and shredded some zucchini while Mr. was prepping the Thai peanut chicken that would be our lunches for the week.

It was while I was washing the dishes that the wonderful blade that sliced through the pine nuts so beautifully, leaped out of the sink and attacked my right pinkie (apparently spellchecker doesn't believe that pinky is correct...I swear I'ma fire her soon).   

I would have liked to report that this sort of event was so far removed from my life, and that this was the first time I'd had such an accident, but I can't.  See, I can't even be original about these things any more, since about 15 years ago I sliced the EXACT SAME finger open with a food processor blade.  (And no, before you ask, it was not on purpose either time...despite how much fun it is in the Emergency room here in this very scary town, it's not my favorite way to spend the evening.)

After the initial home triage and determining that yes, it would need stitching, we made our way to the hospital...3 minutes away from home, not an accident...I married a Boy Scout/Marine who is awesome at preparedness. (I re-wrote that sentence like 15 times because no matter how I put it, it sounded like I was declaring myself a bigamist.  Which I might be, you don't really know now do you?  By the way, do multiple personalities count toward that?  Cuz we could be very well past bigamy between Mr.'s and my personalities...).

Okay where was I?  Oh yes, bleeding to death in the meth capital of the county on a Sunday evening in the only hospital.    I do have to segue seems that every single time I end up in the Emergency room (which, with my usual level of accident-prone-ness is surprisingly seldom), I get asked if I have a head injury.  Now, that would make sense if I in any way looked like I did, but it's usually after I start answering questions in Triage.  Something about the way I act, joking and friendly, makes people think I have a brain injury.  There's probably a lesson to be learned from that, and it's probably time one of you did.  Because I really have no idea.

I was finally brought back to treatment and was dealt with well...they seemed to understand my personal brand of humor.  Although the doctor did scoff when I had less than half the anticipated stitches but in my defense I couldn't count because I was bleeding out of one of my counters.

I did learn a new rule.  When you have to go to the hospital, you get whatever you want for dinner.  I'm not sure this was a good lesson for me to learn, because it seems a little drastic just to get a milkshake.  

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