Feeling: wounded
Listening to: Christian Kane - L.A.
Reading/Watching: Grey's Anatomy

Okay, so remember when I nearly impaled my hand separating frozen hamburgers?

Yeah. This time, it was nothing so practical as a frozen item that is difficult and dangerous. This time, I sliced my thumb open trying to cut an apple.

I was preparing dippy-stuff for fondue (it was self-declared Use Our Wedding Gifts Night for the new Mr. and Mrs.) like cubes of bread, carrot sticks, and sliced granny smith apples to dip in the swiss/gruy�re fondue. And somehow, on the second cut of the first apple, I thought it would be wise to hold the top and bottom of the apple, while I sliced from top to bottom.

And then I got to say, "Wow, that's a lot of blood." (Note to self: new knife set obviously hates me for my inferior chopping skills, and decided to exact revenge.)

The trauma-room wasn't quite as dramatic as last time, I just put my thumb under cold water and calmly asked my husband to bring me a bandage. After that, he forbade me to cut things up ever again (ha, little does he know that was my secret plan), and insisted on finishing the food prep while I melted cheese. No way I could cut myself open whilst melting cheese, although knowing me, I'd still find a way.

Now he's being all Papa-Bear about my "injury," making sure I change the band-aid every day, checking my thumb to see if it's healing all right, worrying over the color (it was a bit waterlogged the first night, because I insisted on helping with the dishes), basically being a cute pain in the ass by watching me try to use my hand normally, hurt myself, and wince, so that he can say ever-so-helpfully, "Don't do that."

I seem to be incapable of babying my thumb until it heals: I keep snatching things up, gripping pens too hard, essentially realizing over and over how dependent we as a human race have become on the opposable thumb.

Plus, I'm a dumbass and I keep forgetting that if I do that instinctive pincer-thing to pick something up with my left hand, it's going to hurt like a bitch, and pretty much slip out of my grasp.

This all proves that my future career as the next Iron Chef is definitely in jeopardy.

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