Monday, August 27, 2012

For Olive

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Gas vs. Immersion Blender

The effects of sleep-deprivation and hunger got the better of me today and, sadly, my left index finger paid the price. I was hurriedly blending a green smoothie with my former bestie (Irma, a sexy and exotic immersion blender; a gift from Brakes. She and I have been daily confidants since Christmas.) when I was distracted by my precious little Olive, just as I was checking Irma's blade for remnant peanut butter. My wrist bumped Irma's hair trigger start button (you know those creative types are very sensitive) and off she went, hacking away at my poor little finger. As I pulled my finger away from her sharp, angry teeth a spurt of blood shot up the kitchen wall. I about passed out right then and there! But I didn't; I knew I needed to remain in control. I was alone in the house with both girls (one of whom was currently hanging on the leg of my yoga pants) and I did not want to scare the piss out of Eloise (who was actually running around naked at the time. Don't ask. Auntie Diana assures me it's just a stage). Then I would have a mangled finger, a hysterical mama, and a puddle of pee on my hands. So I gritted my teeth, scooted to the sink, being careful not to knock my wobbly cling-on (not an intentional Star Trek reference, for the record) over, and ran my finger under cold water while I called Brakes on repeat. As the sink literally turned red from all the blood and the phone kept going to voicemail, my composure began to shred much like my skin had moments before. Soon I was manically whispering "shit" and alternately shouting at Weezy that, "Mama was A-okay!" I apparently develop an annoying fifties-sitcom-mom persona when dealing with panic in front of my children.
Eloise, who is not nearly as sensitive as Irma and who has a healthy dose of opportunistic zeal running through her veins, sized up the situation and quickly put two and two together: Mama was tethered to the sink and not in any shape to enforce rules right now AND she could claim to be "helping" me as she went on a complete naughtiness spree. She dragged her little red stool around the house to access forbidden areas such as the first-aide kit and the freezer. By the time Brakes got home (miraculously he just happened to be working a half day today and he was on his way home when I started calling him on repeat), Eloise had three Hello Kitty band aids taped to her face, two Popsicles and a box of ice cream bars stuffed in a pillow case to form my "ice pack", and she was trying to douse her baby sister in hairspray, "for to make her pfeeel better!" she quickly assured me. Never-mind that Olive was fine and that if she wasn't, hairspray would be the last thing she needed. I was still standing at the sink. Cussing. And crying.
Brakes walked in and immediately went into that dismissive man routine he does when things get a little out of control. He seemed to think that if he just ignored the fact that my finger tip was hanging by a thread and he pretended that the sink full of blood was a figment of my imagination, not a instigator of my hysteria, then these circumstances would simply cease to be. He went about fashioning me a bandage out of a contraband stash of paper towels (I outlawed them a few months back in an effort to go more green) and simultaneously picking a fight with me about first aide. (ehm, which I am currently certified in, ehm)
There may have been a method to his madness because within minutes my irritation with him overshadowed my panic and I was able to calmly clean up the blood (one-handed), haul Weezy to nap time (one-handed), and nurse the baby (one-handed) while he researched finger lacerations on my iPhone (while sitting in his comfy chair, two-handed), trying to prove me wrong.
Once I commandeered back my phone, I called the doctor's office and spoke to the nurse practitioner. I was trying to determine if I needed to see a doctor:
NP: Has there been sustained bleeding for a period longer than 10 min.?
Gas: Yes.
NP: Okay. Is it oozing or squirting?
Gas: Both.
NP: Ooooh. Is there any loss of sensation?
Gas: The tip is numb.
NP: Ugh. Not good. Did the blade penetrate the nail bed?
Gas: It went strait through.
NP: Yikes! Yeah, you are going to need to go to the ER, right away.

I got off the phone and turned to Brakes, who had heard the whole conversation. He had one question: "Did she know how much an ER copay costs?"
Does it matter?! I clearly needed to go. I could only laugh. After 10 years together, I have to relish his consistency and embrace his tackiness as an adorable quirk. Mostly.
Off to the emergency room I went, where I got two gnarly looking stitches and strict orders to take it easy for a couple of days (right). All in all, Irma and I are on the outs, Brakes and I are on the ins (his sympathy grew greatly when I texted him a picture of my swollen and bloody finger being sewn up in the hospital) and I found an app where I can blog (gross pictures of my finger) from my phone, so I might even drop into blog land more often! Not too shabby for Gas!