In my defense, let me just say that the food processor was supposed to have a safety feature to prevent accidents. I say “supposed to have” because the safety feature obviously failed. In theory, the food processor will not turn on unless the lid is securely locked in place. Which is obviously a load of crap, because the lid was nowhere near the food processor when it started up with my hand inside.
Note to everyone who is about to tell me that I should sue the people who made the food processor with the faulty safety feature: I stuck my hand in a food processor that was plugged in.
I am not suing anyone. Can you imagine me standing up in court and testifying that “yes, I do realize that was a stupid thing to do, Your Honor”?
The good news is that I didn’t lose any fingers or sever anything crucial. The heel of my hand looked like a chunk of raw pork roast, which has sort of put me off pork roast for a while, and I have added to my status as an accident-prone freak of nature in our local ER, but I didn’t do any long-term damage to myself. If I were a child, they would be calling in Protective Services right about now. Since I am an adult, I’m surprised they haven’t called for a psych consult.
I’m just glad I didn’t go in for x-rays when I fell out of the barn and sprained my ankle the week before I processed my hand.
There’s an old saying: When it rains, it pours. I never really understood it as anything more than a slogan for selling salt, but I get it now.
You see, I got my house. I am moving. It is a delightful house in a perfect location, with enough rooms that my boys don’t have to share. There is a laundry room, a little playhouse in the back yard, fabulous neighbors, and a grocery store within walking distance. It’s even got a picket fence, for God’s sake.
A house with a picket fence!
There have been a few hiccups, most of which involve the previous tenants. Since this is a small town, I won’t go into any detail that might embarrass the family. Suffice it to say that the bike ramp they set up to fling themselves out the laundry room window was the least of the modifications they made to the building.
I am packing and sorting and organizing eighteen years of my life. My emotions are raw. I keep going off on crying jags and then laughing because I feel stupid for crying over dumb things. I fell apart yesterday when I came across the little quartz elephant The Big Guy gave me on our honeymoon; I can’t for the life of me figure out which one of us gets to keep the trinkets we inherited from his grandmother. And I haven’t a clue what to do about that damn goose in the front yard.
The Big Guy painted it for my Aunt Noni when someone stole Lucy the Goose from her front porch. We knew she needed a replacement goose – hell, that thing had a better wardrobe than I do – but The Big Guy decided that everyone has plain white concrete geese on their front porches. Aunt Noni, he decided, needed something unique, and so he painstakingly designed a Canadian Goose.
So, really, he should keep Desi the Goose. He worked so hard and really created a beautiful thing. But I should keep Desi because he belonged to my aunt.
And I know I really don’t give a rat’s ass about that stupid goose.
I am sorting and dividing and cleaning up my life. With a 10-pound lifting restriction because of my neck. With a sprained ankle. With my hand in a splint. With my kids’ school year winding down, and end-of-the-year parties and band concerts and dance recitals and book fairs and trying to find a job and goddammit I want to crawl under the kitchen table and curl up in a fetal position and have a really good cry.
I’m not sad; I’m overwhelmed.
I stand in the middle of a room and spin around trying to figure out where to start, and then I decide it’s time for a Toblerone and some Netflix. I’m not lazy; I have just perfected the art of avoidance tinged with just the right amount of procrastination. With a little bit of guilt and compulsive overeating and some vintage Randy Mantooth thrown in for good measure.
It’s probably a good thing I don’t drink.
Although drinking might help explain things when I go back to the ER. Because I think we all know I’m going to hurt some other part of myself before all is said and done.
I have, however, been able to make one major decision this week. I may not know how to divide the towels and silverware and DVDs, but I have decided on at least one item that The Big Guy can keep.
I grant him full custody of the food processor.
But I’m keeping the goose.