I am NOT genteel

Up until about three hours ago I was really wondering how I was going to spice up my weekend summary. How was I going to make surfing the internet until the wee hours of the morning, making and eating cupcakes, and watching Twilight by myself sound riveting, and even awesome? That would be a near impossible feat for even the most talented creative souls.

I had planned to talk about how late Saturday night the Wandering Husband returned from his adventure in the great wild, smelling wind-whipped and reeking of sunblock, earth, and general manliness. He also had hairy growth all over his face. It was rustic. Very rustic. And sometimes I like rustic. Just not combined with all of the above mentioned aromas.

But who wants to hear about the Scents-o-Husband? It would have been in poor taste to devote an entire blog post to that. Right?

Well lucky for you dear readers a little event called Sunday Dinner Preparation occurred.

Usually this event begins with me adjusting my cute yellow apron and appearing entirely too domestic. Then I would proceed to arrange all the necessary ingredients to make a wonderful feast for my family to enjoy. The word feast is of course up to interpretation. Let’s just say if I make it, they will come. And they will eat it happily dangit.

Usually Sunday Dinner Preparation goes off without a hitch. But not this weekend my friends.

It started out well. I had the jasmine rice simmering away. Vegetables of the utmost deliciousness (frozen) ready to be stir fried. I just had to cut up some raw chicken and then I could start putting it all together. I reached for my trusty kitchen shears and began to cut the chicken breast into pieces. But somehow my index finger got caught up in all the fun and the scissors sank into my flesh, mistaking it for chicken.

I tried not to panic, but I knew it was deep. Who slices their finger open with a pair of scissors? Not a knife, but a pair of utility scissors? That would be me of course. There’s a first time for everything so the Husband says.

Well, my cut was bleeding. More than just a little. I told the Husband, “I just cut myself with the dang scissors." To which he replied, “Are you serious?” Well I figured I best not talk to him at that exact moment, lest I say something I would regret. I ran my finger under cold water and by george it stung! I tried to survey the damage and it was deep enough to see grayish blue. That was surely bone yes? I didn’t know, but the thought of me needing to get stitches was obviously more than my little self could bear because I started feeling woozy.

The Husband was next to me trying to help me. Help me do what I’m not sure. Then I started freaking out that I now had raw chicken bacteria deep in my wound and was clearly going to die from some flesh eating thingy. The Husband must have been worried about this too because he insisted on soap and such.

At this point I was feeling a definite need to toss my cupcakes, and I told the Husband so. He followed me to the bathroom. I told him I was feeling really hot and the room was spinning. I had a case of the vapors I do declare! He told me to lie down. On the bathroom floor. Gross? Yes. I told him I was pretty sure I was going to faint, even though I’ve never fainted before in my life. But I still needed to throw up, and yet the spinning of the room and the ringing in my ears overpowered that desire so I laid down on something. I think it was the Husband’s arm. So gallant, is he not?

Well apparently this is where I drifted off into lala land long enough for the Husband to look at me, pause, and say my name twice . . . then I opened my eyes to see him looking at me weird-like. Then I asked him if I had just passed out, to which he replied no. Even though the answer was actually yes. He didn’t want to freak me out so I was told.

I personally don’t think I passed out. I think I merely couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears, and then I chose to close my eyes. That would explain why I couldn’t hear him call my name, and why I didn’t see anything for two seconds. Makes perfect sense to me.

After that, the Husband yelled out to Bosco, who was in the living room, to bring over a pillow. Well, if you want to watch the most hilarious sitcom in the world, just have the main character be a three year old in desperate search of a pillow, while a sickly woman is lying on a bathroom floor, while her Husband cradles her head and patiently waits for the main character to bring one of the eight staring-you-right-in-the-face pillows.

Cue laugh track.

Note: I haven’t looked at my wound again because it is covered with a bandaid. It doesn’t hurt which can only mean I’ve damaged nerves. I haven’t died of flesh eating bacteria yet, but only time will tell. I don’t usually have this reaction to blood, cuts, etc. Today was just special. I am a wuss. The end.