I’m still adjusting to life with a dishwasher again. This means that last night when I decided I was hungry and would make a sandwich, I planned said sandwich with the idea of using no dishes and slapping it together as quickly as possible so I’d be finished before the commercial break was over.
But the tomato looked so beautiful, I needed a couple of slices. Maybe not so much the tomato as the thought of the salt I’d now be justified in adding. Being lazy, in a hurry, and now jonesing at the prospect of Himalayan sea salt, I skipped the cutting board. Picked the tomato up and began slicing. I do things like this all the time (as long as Art Child isn’t watching, because I don’t want her to think this is a safe idea), never a problem.
I sliced right into my thumb. Most little kitchen mishaps don’t involve more than rinsing my finger under some cold water for a couple of minutes, maybe some pressure with a paper towel. Most. Not a terrible cut, but in a bad spot, I bled for a good hour and had to toss the tomato. Then I had to find the band-aids. Applying pressure as I searched, I found gauze pads sized for cardio-thorassic surgery, plumbing tape, ace bandages, corn removers, face masks, dental floss. Gave up, changed the paper towel–four times–threw a couple of slices of cheese on a piece of bread and finished watching the Housewives.
Went to bed, and saw the box of band-aids blowing me a big old Bronx cheer from Husband’s desk.
Today is a water change day for the tank. I can’t put it off any more, as it is I’m two weeks behind. Salt water is good for open wounds, right?
The clowns were so cute this morning, cuddling in their little corner of the tank. Now I’ll mess up their world by changing out water, filter media, and scraping the glass.