What Bandage?
I grew up being aware that I am a wee bit challenged in the hand-eye coordination area. I started wearing glasses at 3 years-old and am virtually blind in my right eye. This fact has never stopped me from trying things that require such an ability. I learned how to read music and play the piano...at the same time! I can type quite proficiently (thank you Internet) and I am a master at Super Mario Brothers on the classic Nintendo system, a real usable talent. One thing I have never been able to quite figure out how to do well though, is cut things without slicing myself.
I remember being a preteen and helping a friend get ready for her party. We were having tacos and I was asked to dice the onions. Her father stood back and watched for a few seconds as I struggled to balance this slippery round object with a particularly sharp knife looming precariously close to my fingers. I'm not sure whether it was a protective nature or sense of liability that kicked in but he waited very little time before snatching the knife from me and giving me a thorough onion dicing lesson. It was a good lesson, I still use his techniques to this day. I still cut myself when there's no one around to save me.
Since I have gotten married I have received 3 knife sets as gifts. I remember each individual knife set with clarity because my husband has taken bets on how long it would take me to cut myself on each one. The first we got as a wedding present. Yes, I actually registered for these weapons of doom. One beautiful summer afternoon less than two months after the wedding, I wanted to prepare my new husband's favorite summer treat. I pulled out a big juicy watermelon and one my new shiny knives. I hadn't even sliced clean though the fruit when I saw the blood. Somehow, without the watermelon shifting or the knife slipping, I managed to slice the side of my wrist right below the thumb to the bone.
PRESSURE! Apply pressure! Was the only thing I could think of so I grabbed a paper towel as I started to slide down the cabinets to sit on the floor. The perforations didn't detach fully which caused a trail of white to follow along behind me.
"Uhhh, Honey...." I tried not to let my voice waver and reveal the severity of my injury to my husband who was anxiously awaiting sliced watermelon, not sliced wife.
He walked into the kitchen of our basement apartment and followed the trail of paper towel to his bride sitting in a heap on the floor. My husband is not the panicking type. He's not the sympathetic type either.
"What on earth did you do?!" He asked with a sigh.
Not, "Are you ok?" or "Please don't die..." or anything appropriate like that. No, he just wanted to know how I managed to cut myself so ridiculously.
He helped me stand up, looked at my wound, told me how he almost sliced his finger off with a chainsaw and used duct tape to wrap it up, pronounced me fine, kissed the top of my head, and finished cutting the watermelon himself.
Since that day, each new knife set has caused a steady stream of blood and ridicule so I have taken to trying to hide my accidents with invisible bandages and denial...ok, lying.
A few months ago, Hubby and I were horsing around and I challenged him to a duel....I made that sound really elegant but what I actually said was, "You wanna go?!" One must understand that my husband is almost a full foot taller than me, outweighs me by more than 100 pounds, and has worked with heavy equipment in the mines for most of his adult life. The fact that I imply I could beat him in hand-to-hand combat is utterly hilarious. He started chuckling and said,
"Sure! I'll just hand you a sharp knife, stand back, and wait."
He thinks he's pretty funny. Apparently, the kids do too. While preparing supper one afternoon, I was slicing some red pepper and I noticed my 9 year-old was just standing silently at the counter.
"Did you need something, Sweetheart?" I asked innocently.
"Nope!" she said, "Just waiting till I need to run and get you a bandage."
She's not my favorite.
When I acquired my most recent beautiful, multi-coloured, ceramic coated knife set I was excited and a tad nervous to try them out. I busied myself in the kitchen while Hubby sat a the kitchen table and began giving me a lecture on knife safety. He was explaining that the sharper the knife, the less chance of accident since the knife cuts easily and cleanly. He even has a saying! "Sharp knives don't cut people." I was listening and working on a fantastic salad when my brand new sharp knife developed a mind of its own and a thirst for human blood. Hubby was still talking while I quietly turned my back and and ripped a paper towel from the roll...pressure, apply pressure. Hubby noticed my sudden silence and lack of movement. He didn't even get up from his chair.
"Ugh, what did you do now?"
"Absolutely nothing." I said a little too cheerily.
"Honey....."
"What?"
"Tell me what you did."
I gritted my teeth and hissed through the pain, "Nothing...because sharp knives don't cut people!!!!!!"
I remember being a preteen and helping a friend get ready for her party. We were having tacos and I was asked to dice the onions. Her father stood back and watched for a few seconds as I struggled to balance this slippery round object with a particularly sharp knife looming precariously close to my fingers. I'm not sure whether it was a protective nature or sense of liability that kicked in but he waited very little time before snatching the knife from me and giving me a thorough onion dicing lesson. It was a good lesson, I still use his techniques to this day. I still cut myself when there's no one around to save me.
Since I have gotten married I have received 3 knife sets as gifts. I remember each individual knife set with clarity because my husband has taken bets on how long it would take me to cut myself on each one. The first we got as a wedding present. Yes, I actually registered for these weapons of doom. One beautiful summer afternoon less than two months after the wedding, I wanted to prepare my new husband's favorite summer treat. I pulled out a big juicy watermelon and one my new shiny knives. I hadn't even sliced clean though the fruit when I saw the blood. Somehow, without the watermelon shifting or the knife slipping, I managed to slice the side of my wrist right below the thumb to the bone.
PRESSURE! Apply pressure! Was the only thing I could think of so I grabbed a paper towel as I started to slide down the cabinets to sit on the floor. The perforations didn't detach fully which caused a trail of white to follow along behind me.
"Uhhh, Honey...." I tried not to let my voice waver and reveal the severity of my injury to my husband who was anxiously awaiting sliced watermelon, not sliced wife.
He walked into the kitchen of our basement apartment and followed the trail of paper towel to his bride sitting in a heap on the floor. My husband is not the panicking type. He's not the sympathetic type either.
"What on earth did you do?!" He asked with a sigh.
Not, "Are you ok?" or "Please don't die..." or anything appropriate like that. No, he just wanted to know how I managed to cut myself so ridiculously.
He helped me stand up, looked at my wound, told me how he almost sliced his finger off with a chainsaw and used duct tape to wrap it up, pronounced me fine, kissed the top of my head, and finished cutting the watermelon himself.
Since that day, each new knife set has caused a steady stream of blood and ridicule so I have taken to trying to hide my accidents with invisible bandages and denial...ok, lying.
A few months ago, Hubby and I were horsing around and I challenged him to a duel....I made that sound really elegant but what I actually said was, "You wanna go?!" One must understand that my husband is almost a full foot taller than me, outweighs me by more than 100 pounds, and has worked with heavy equipment in the mines for most of his adult life. The fact that I imply I could beat him in hand-to-hand combat is utterly hilarious. He started chuckling and said,
"Sure! I'll just hand you a sharp knife, stand back, and wait."
He thinks he's pretty funny. Apparently, the kids do too. While preparing supper one afternoon, I was slicing some red pepper and I noticed my 9 year-old was just standing silently at the counter.
"Did you need something, Sweetheart?" I asked innocently.
"Nope!" she said, "Just waiting till I need to run and get you a bandage."
She's not my favorite.
When I acquired my most recent beautiful, multi-coloured, ceramic coated knife set I was excited and a tad nervous to try them out. I busied myself in the kitchen while Hubby sat a the kitchen table and began giving me a lecture on knife safety. He was explaining that the sharper the knife, the less chance of accident since the knife cuts easily and cleanly. He even has a saying! "Sharp knives don't cut people." I was listening and working on a fantastic salad when my brand new sharp knife developed a mind of its own and a thirst for human blood. Hubby was still talking while I quietly turned my back and and ripped a paper towel from the roll...pressure, apply pressure. Hubby noticed my sudden silence and lack of movement. He didn't even get up from his chair.
"Ugh, what did you do now?"
"Absolutely nothing." I said a little too cheerily.
"Honey....."
"What?"
"Tell me what you did."
I gritted my teeth and hissed through the pain, "Nothing...because sharp knives don't cut people!!!!!!"
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