Partly because I never cook.
But I do sometimes. I make sandwiches and stuff all the time.
And I never cut my fingers.
So yesterday I was supposed to make a roast beef for Mike. He really wanted a roast beef. He hardly ever requests meals of me. I knew I didn't want to do it, but I was going to.
The reason I don't like making roast beef is because you have to make mashed potatoes with roast beef. Making mashed potatoes is a pain in the ass. Everyone else I know can peel potatoes with a knife. But I'm too afraid of cutting myself (which now seems ironic) and I just can't do it that way.
They make these wonderful products now and you can get them in any grocery store. 100% real potatoes, all mashed up for you and shrink wrapped and ready to go, even with garlic! And they're a little extra money but convenience is worth the extra money, I always say. We saw them in the grocery store yesterday, but I had already found Jam Jams and so that was my special treat. I would have to mash the potatoes the old fashioned way. Just like the Mennonites.
So I sat in front of Dr. Phil (Mike had gone to his dad's for something, Carter was taking his nap) with a roasting pan full of potatoes and my trusty peeler. I was just peeling away and - out of nowhere - SLICE!
I don't know how I got to the other side of the basement so fast, but I did. And I wrapped a dishtowel around my wound without even looking at it. I looked at the potatoes and there was blood all over them. And I felt it - I knew it was a pretty serious cut.
I called Mike immediately. I started crying, saying it really hurt, there's blood on the potatoes, come home fast because I CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT IT!!!
I even called my mom, who is in New Brunswick and can't do shit. Eventually, Mike came home and I still hadn't dared to look at the dishtowel, let alone what was inside the dishtowel.
All the drama that followed, just because of a cut on my finger, is actually quite shameless and hilarious, thinking back.
Mike is the guy everyone needs around during a crisis. He came home laughing hysterically at me because the way I was bawling, you'd think that someone had died. I was grieving for that finger. So he told me to remove the towel but I was too scared. I was like a 4 year old with a sliver in my foot. "Okay okay okay... I'm ready. NONONO DON'T TOUCH IT AHHHHHH!" kind of thing. I put the hand (and the towel) under the tap and it stung like a motherfucker. And then I discovered that the towel was stuck to the open wound. And trying to take it off was agonizing. Childbirth was easier than removing the towel from my finger. Seriously.
Mike keeps telling me to just do it quickly. But he obviously has no idea how much pain I'm going through. I'm not even over-dramatizing. It was excrutiating! At any rate, I got the towel off after many tears and screams and much wailing. In the towel, before I even saw my finger, I saw the piece that I had sliced off. A piece of my fingertip. In a dishtowel. I could discern the fingerprint on it.
Well, fuck that, on went the towel again and I continued to scream.
About 45 minutes after first cutting my finger, I did get the towel off and got it nicely wrapped up in gauze and polysporin. I sent Mike to the drug store and he came back with NON STICK GAUZE (!!!) and finger condoms.
I thought to myself: how clever. Just when I thought that the only good thing about slicing a piece of my finger off would be a break from dishes and baby-bathing, the bastard comes home with finger condoms....
Like I said. Definitely the guy you want around during a crisis.
Finger condoms... honestly...
