The Nine Fingered Writer

Well, this wasn't what I intended to write about this week, but it certainly the biggest thing that happened. 

On Saturday, I decided to deal with the produce that was stacking up in the kitchen. I was going to chop cucumbers and tomatoes for salad, but decided instead to get out my new mandoline and make pickles.

Do you see where this is going? 

It was the first time I'd used it. It made such amazingly thin slices. I kept going. Until. 

Then, all of a sudden, I was running up the steps yelling for my husband to get the bandaids. I sat on the toilet lid and told him what I needed, and my vision kept going spotty (I'm not good with blood generally, but especially not my own). The next thing I knew, he was on the phone with 911 because I'd passed out.

I came to and told him off for fussing at me, which is terrible *and*completely on brand. 

Two female EMTs came and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I said no. They asked if I wanted to go to urgent care. I said no. 

Where did I end up at 7 p.m.? Urgent care.

Five sutures and the most painful shots I've ever had in my life - directly into the wound to numb it for stitching - and a doctor who didn't appreciate the range of my profanity when she have me those needles. 

I'm grateful that I got a tetanus shot while I was on my doctor binge this past winter; at least I didn't have to deal with that. 

It doesn't hurt, except when I bang it into things, which I do at least four times a day. 

The mandoline qent for a new home on Monday via Buy Nothing. I am not careful enough to be trusted with a kitchen razor. I'll stick to knives. I understand how they work.