Wait, I forgot to put this in my last post.
Ok, you know how people (men) commonly use slang terms for women's anatomy? Like "rack" and "ti*ties" and what have you?
I must know: What are "gams"? And while we're on the subject, what are "cans"? I feel like they mean boobs and legs, but I'm not sure which one means what. And if "cans" means "boobs", who the hell came up with that? Are boobs supposed to be shaped like an MGD can? If so, then I am soooooo not porno material.
I should move to a country where men worship fat women with boobs that look like an orange in a tube sock.
But it would have to be a cool country, not some place in Africa or whatever. It's too hot there, and it's really hard to find orange-in-a-tube-sock-style bikini tops. (Believe me, I've tried.)
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Redundancy
Still neglecting my fans. Work is too crazy. Can't give details. Also can't compose full sentences. Too busy.
I just wanted to put this out there: my busy crazy work life is becoming redundant.
Last night I had two beers and a bowl of old ice cream for dinner. Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss and Edy's Peanut Butter something-or-other.
It's one step up from the two-beer-supper of last week. (That was Summit EPA, I believe.)
Like I've said before: I'm a class act.
Back to work now... Looking forward to Honey Weiss and maybe a stale pita when I get home tonight.
I just wanted to put this out there: my busy crazy work life is becoming redundant.
Last night I had two beers and a bowl of old ice cream for dinner. Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss and Edy's Peanut Butter something-or-other.
It's one step up from the two-beer-supper of last week. (That was Summit EPA, I believe.)
Like I've said before: I'm a class act.
Back to work now... Looking forward to Honey Weiss and maybe a stale pita when I get home tonight.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
One of Those Weeks
Oh, Lordy. It's been one of those weeks. I am super busy at work, so I don't have time to write a real blog entry. Here is a nice, succinct, bullet-pointed list of crap that's been going on the last several days:
- I ran over an "Off" Citronella candle with my car while backing out of the driveway yesterday. I dragged the stupid thing for over two blocks, all the while thinking "What is that sound?"
- My sister-in-law has a staph infection. She came over to hang out for a bit this weekend. What did I do? I touched her wound. You know, the one infested with staph infection. Then I touched my eyes and licked my finger. (I'm kidding, people. But I did touch her owie. And then licked my finger.)
- I didn't feel like making anything for supper the other night, so you know what I served my husband? Beer. We literally had two beers each for supper. Ain't I a class act?
- I found more boxelder bugs in my house. Not many - like 5 or so. But it bothers me! I think they're in my walls! It's making me feel a bit panicked - I have an urge to go rip off a chunk of siding to see if they're in there! Yuck.
- Safety people drive me nuts. I know they are doing their job, and I know that their jobs are important. However, I don't think I need to do a "dry run" of the "evacuation process in case of a tornado" 15 times. In one day. Because the leader of the safety committee thought that we should be able to do it faster. Allllrighty. So we, the women of the office, spent a cumulative hour or so in the nasty women's locker room on the first floor. And now the safety lady is on a rampage throughout the office, looking for "fire hazards" (i.e. family pictures on your desk). Good Lord.
- I've emailed my husband like 5 times in the last two days to ask him nicely not to murder me. I've heard a lot of stories lately about these husbands that just snap and start killing folks. Just this week there was one in Florida, one in Georgia, and one in Illinois, I think. Yuck. It's almost becoming common for the husband to off his wife and kids. WTF? So I keep reminding my husband not to kill me. Because I would be super pissed off.
- And finally, I think I like the show Dexter, but sometimes it annoys me. Interesting, huh?
Well, that's the best I can do for you today. Sorry. I know it's lame. After this horrible week is over, maybe I'll have something worthwhile to blog about. Unless I die from exhaustion and stress-related psychosis. I'd sure have something interesting to blog about then, but I'd be dead, and I don't know if they have blogspot.com in heaven.
(Yeah, haha to all the upcoming jokes about me going to heaven.)
- I ran over an "Off" Citronella candle with my car while backing out of the driveway yesterday. I dragged the stupid thing for over two blocks, all the while thinking "What is that sound?"
- My sister-in-law has a staph infection. She came over to hang out for a bit this weekend. What did I do? I touched her wound. You know, the one infested with staph infection. Then I touched my eyes and licked my finger. (I'm kidding, people. But I did touch her owie. And then licked my finger.)
- I didn't feel like making anything for supper the other night, so you know what I served my husband? Beer. We literally had two beers each for supper. Ain't I a class act?
- I found more boxelder bugs in my house. Not many - like 5 or so. But it bothers me! I think they're in my walls! It's making me feel a bit panicked - I have an urge to go rip off a chunk of siding to see if they're in there! Yuck.
- Safety people drive me nuts. I know they are doing their job, and I know that their jobs are important. However, I don't think I need to do a "dry run" of the "evacuation process in case of a tornado" 15 times. In one day. Because the leader of the safety committee thought that we should be able to do it faster. Allllrighty. So we, the women of the office, spent a cumulative hour or so in the nasty women's locker room on the first floor. And now the safety lady is on a rampage throughout the office, looking for "fire hazards" (i.e. family pictures on your desk). Good Lord.
- I've emailed my husband like 5 times in the last two days to ask him nicely not to murder me. I've heard a lot of stories lately about these husbands that just snap and start killing folks. Just this week there was one in Florida, one in Georgia, and one in Illinois, I think. Yuck. It's almost becoming common for the husband to off his wife and kids. WTF? So I keep reminding my husband not to kill me. Because I would be super pissed off.
- And finally, I think I like the show Dexter, but sometimes it annoys me. Interesting, huh?
Well, that's the best I can do for you today. Sorry. I know it's lame. After this horrible week is over, maybe I'll have something worthwhile to blog about. Unless I die from exhaustion and stress-related psychosis. I'd sure have something interesting to blog about then, but I'd be dead, and I don't know if they have blogspot.com in heaven.
(Yeah, haha to all the upcoming jokes about me going to heaven.)
Thursday, September 17, 2009
That Jacket is Sharp
Oh, how I've neglected my readers. I apologize. Things and stuffs have kept me from being able to blog lately. I suffered a mini nervous breakdown last weekend, work has been crazy, and only now is my soft fruit peeler injury starting to heal. So now I can type the following letters without wincing: t,r,f,c,v,g and sometimes h.
So, I had one of my weird recurring dreams again last night. I figured I'd share it with the masses. Perhaps you could tell me what it means. I tried to figure it out on dream interpretation websites, but strangely nothing pops up when you type in "Don Johnson, giraffe, sharp-looking blazer, and sticky floors." Weird, right? You'd think TONS of people have dreams like that.
Ahhh, but you are intrigued now, aren't you?
So in the dream, I am at a house I used to live in, located in the beautiful (slightly crime-ridden) city of South Minneapolis. It was one of those old houses, probably built around the turn of the century (as in the 1900's. Not the 2000's. We ain't made of money, y'all.) You know, where everything is made for people that were apparently much shorter and slimmer than we are nowadays. The doorways are short, the hallways are narrow, the staircases are an accident waiting to happen. Each step is like 14 inches tall, so it's like doing lunges or something. Which my fat ass is clearly not built for. And the steps are only 3 inches deep, so you can't really fit your huge 21st century foot on it. Very trecherous. And the bedrooms in this house are a spacious 6'x7'. So you can fit, you know, nothing in these rooms. Anyhoo, I'm back in this house. I'm in the living room and I keep hearing this weird sound coming from the attic, right above my head. So I open the attic door and start walking up the stairs. (Please note: this would never happen in real life. If I heard some shit going on in my attic and I didn't know what it was, my ass would be up and outta there, like yesterday.) Anyway, when I get to the top I see that there is a giraffe standing over in the corner. And he kind of telepathically tells me that he needs to get out of there and go home, but he can't figure out how. So I try to help him, but you know, he's just a stupid giraffe, so he isn't really good at taking direction from me. Plus, I notice that the floor is super sticky. So sticky that I lose both of my shoes. So I run downstairs and call the ASPCA. Immediately a car pulls up in front of the house, and the ASPCA dude comes to the door. And it's none other than the highly esteemed actor/singer Don Johnson. Think: Miami Vice. Dude's got the Farrah Faucett-esque mullet going on, the teal colored t-shirt with the linen jacket over it (sleeves rolled up, of course), a sensible pair of tapered black jeans. Oh, and a huge rocket-launcher size tranquilizer gun. I tell him about the giraffe, so he heads up there and shoots the hell out of it. Then he ties a rope around his neck and drags the thing down the stairs and out the front door. I ask him if he is hurting the giraffe by dragging it that way, and Don looks at me and says, "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey."
Then I wake up.
Now, the line that Don Johnson flawlessly delivers at the end of this dream can vary. Sometimes he says, "Keep your chin up, darlin'." Sometimes it's something about Coke. But usually, it's "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey." This is funny for a few different reasons.
A) It makes no sense. The whole friggin dream in completely nonsensical and bizarre. And therefore funny.
B) The chipmunk line, for those of you in the know, is the very first line I had in a play when I was in elementary school. I was an elephant. I don't remember my name, but it will come to me. (Lily?) Anyway, in the first scene of the play, I'm in my gray elephant costume, kind of curled up on the ground, and one of the other castmembers (I believe she was a pelican) comes to "sit" on me - she thinks I'm a rock. I start to move and Pelican-Girl says "Oh, that's not a rock! What is it?" And I say "Well, I ain't no chipmunk, honey!" And then hilarity ensues. (My sister-in-law loves that story. Mostly because one time me, my dad, and my sister in law were sitting in a booth at a Burger King having lunch or elevensies or something, and my dad told the story of me dressed up like an elephant. He apparently thought it was SOOOOOO funny that he started to laugh. And then it escalated to snorting. And then chest-clutching, knee-slapping, red-faced womanly shrieks of laughter. And everyone at the BK was looking at us. And I wanted to crawl under the table and die, because, like, my dad was soooo lame, man. So I don't know if it's the story itself that my SIL likes, or just the over-the-top reaction my dad when relating the story to us.)
But, I digress. Back to my dream. Hopefully you all can interpret this for me. If you do a good job, perhaps I'll share some of my other recurring dreams. (Teaser: robots and cantaloupe. Now you want to know, don't you? DON'T YOU?!?!)
So, I had one of my weird recurring dreams again last night. I figured I'd share it with the masses. Perhaps you could tell me what it means. I tried to figure it out on dream interpretation websites, but strangely nothing pops up when you type in "Don Johnson, giraffe, sharp-looking blazer, and sticky floors." Weird, right? You'd think TONS of people have dreams like that.
Ahhh, but you are intrigued now, aren't you?
So in the dream, I am at a house I used to live in, located in the beautiful (slightly crime-ridden) city of South Minneapolis. It was one of those old houses, probably built around the turn of the century (as in the 1900's. Not the 2000's. We ain't made of money, y'all.) You know, where everything is made for people that were apparently much shorter and slimmer than we are nowadays. The doorways are short, the hallways are narrow, the staircases are an accident waiting to happen. Each step is like 14 inches tall, so it's like doing lunges or something. Which my fat ass is clearly not built for. And the steps are only 3 inches deep, so you can't really fit your huge 21st century foot on it. Very trecherous. And the bedrooms in this house are a spacious 6'x7'. So you can fit, you know, nothing in these rooms. Anyhoo, I'm back in this house. I'm in the living room and I keep hearing this weird sound coming from the attic, right above my head. So I open the attic door and start walking up the stairs. (Please note: this would never happen in real life. If I heard some shit going on in my attic and I didn't know what it was, my ass would be up and outta there, like yesterday.) Anyway, when I get to the top I see that there is a giraffe standing over in the corner. And he kind of telepathically tells me that he needs to get out of there and go home, but he can't figure out how. So I try to help him, but you know, he's just a stupid giraffe, so he isn't really good at taking direction from me. Plus, I notice that the floor is super sticky. So sticky that I lose both of my shoes. So I run downstairs and call the ASPCA. Immediately a car pulls up in front of the house, and the ASPCA dude comes to the door. And it's none other than the highly esteemed actor/singer Don Johnson. Think: Miami Vice. Dude's got the Farrah Faucett-esque mullet going on, the teal colored t-shirt with the linen jacket over it (sleeves rolled up, of course), a sensible pair of tapered black jeans. Oh, and a huge rocket-launcher size tranquilizer gun. I tell him about the giraffe, so he heads up there and shoots the hell out of it. Then he ties a rope around his neck and drags the thing down the stairs and out the front door. I ask him if he is hurting the giraffe by dragging it that way, and Don looks at me and says, "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey."
Then I wake up.
Now, the line that Don Johnson flawlessly delivers at the end of this dream can vary. Sometimes he says, "Keep your chin up, darlin'." Sometimes it's something about Coke. But usually, it's "Well, it ain't no chipmunk, honey." This is funny for a few different reasons.
A) It makes no sense. The whole friggin dream in completely nonsensical and bizarre. And therefore funny.
B) The chipmunk line, for those of you in the know, is the very first line I had in a play when I was in elementary school. I was an elephant. I don't remember my name, but it will come to me. (Lily?) Anyway, in the first scene of the play, I'm in my gray elephant costume, kind of curled up on the ground, and one of the other castmembers (I believe she was a pelican) comes to "sit" on me - she thinks I'm a rock. I start to move and Pelican-Girl says "Oh, that's not a rock! What is it?" And I say "Well, I ain't no chipmunk, honey!" And then hilarity ensues. (My sister-in-law loves that story. Mostly because one time me, my dad, and my sister in law were sitting in a booth at a Burger King having lunch or elevensies or something, and my dad told the story of me dressed up like an elephant. He apparently thought it was SOOOOOO funny that he started to laugh. And then it escalated to snorting. And then chest-clutching, knee-slapping, red-faced womanly shrieks of laughter. And everyone at the BK was looking at us. And I wanted to crawl under the table and die, because, like, my dad was soooo lame, man. So I don't know if it's the story itself that my SIL likes, or just the over-the-top reaction my dad when relating the story to us.)
But, I digress. Back to my dream. Hopefully you all can interpret this for me. If you do a good job, perhaps I'll share some of my other recurring dreams. (Teaser: robots and cantaloupe. Now you want to know, don't you? DON'T YOU?!?!)
Friday, September 11, 2009
Credit Card Stupidity Part 2
OMG, people. I posted my last rant just a few minutes ago, and I shit you not, I just got another phone call from Capital One. Amazingly, my zip code (or area code, if you're Ray) matches now. But I had to interrupt Kelly's little sales pitch to tell her that I have been added to their Do Not Call List. That shut her up quick.
And there was no need for what-for.
And there was no need for what-for.
Credit Card Stupidity
Here are some excerpts from phone conversations I have had with a certain credit card company over the past two days. Names and numbers have been changed to protect the innocent. Except the credit card company. We'll just call them....oh, I don't know....Capital One.
Background info: I had been getting calls on my cell from some weird 800 number that never left messages. After getting 3 calls in one day, I called the number back, just to see who it was. It was "Capital One" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).
"Customer Service" Rep: Thank you for calling Capital One, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been getting tons of calls from you guys for the last two days, and I just wanted to call and make sure there was nothing weird going on with my account.
Rep: Oh, I would be happy to help you with this, Ms Harris. We are so pleased that you have taken the time to contact us with your concerns. Please allow me a moment to access your account.
Me: Ok. Sure.
Rep: Hmmm. Well, I don't see anything strange going on with your account. It is in good standing.
Me: Ok, well why are they calling me?
Rep: Well, perhaps they are trying to offer you a service of some kind. Or maybe not.
Me: Ok, what?
Rep: They may be trying to contact you to offer you a service. But they might not be.
Me: Shouldn't you know why they are calling me 3 times a day?
Rep: I don't see that anyone has left you a voicemail.
Me: I know - that's my point. I don't understand what they want.
Rep: Yes, ma'am.
Me: Yes, what? I don't understand what you're saying to me.
Rep: Thank you for taking the time to contact us with your concerns. You are a valued customer. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms Harris?
Me: Apparently not. (Click.)
Ok, then yesterday on the way home, the same number called me for the fourth time that day. I was pissed off, so I just answered the stupid call.
Me: Hello? Hello?
Telemarketer: (Click, long pause) Hello, may I please speak with Henrietta Harris?
Me: This is she. Is this Capital One?
T: Yes, this is Ray with Capital One. Can you please verify your zip code?
Me: Sure. 90210.
T: Hmmm. That's not correct.
Me: Well, yes it is. I'm pretty sure I know my zip code.
T: Is 90210 your area code? I need your zip code, ma'am.
Me: Well, since area codes are 3 digits, and zip codes are 5 digits, I'm pretty sure 90210 is my zip code.
T: Hmmm. How about your mother's maiden name?
Me: Taylor.
T: Taylor - is that T-A-I-L-E-R?
Me: No. So close. T-A-Y-L-O-R.
T: Hmmm. That's not coming up either. Can I have your social security number?
Me: Ummm, no. You can't. Because all of the info I have given you is correct, and I don't understand why nothing is "coming up" for you.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Listen, if you're trying to sell me some kind of service, I don't want it.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Well, I can't continue this call, because I don't know if you are from Capital One, or just some random rude guy that called to steal my identity.
T: Excuse me, ma'am? Did you just call me rude? I told you at the beginning of the call that I was from Capital One. You have been unable to answer my questions.
Me: OK, first of all you called me. I don't need to answer any of your questions. Secondly, I don't believe you're from Capital One, because you should have all of this information on file. I've had an account with you for 6 years and I'm fairly certain my mother's maiden name hasn't changed since then. How is this info just "magically" not matching up?
T: I'm not sure why it's "magically" not matching up. But this really isn't my problem, is it?
Me: Excuse me?!?
T: Click.
OMG, the a-hole hung up on me. Hell to the no. So I was all ready to call back and get someone fired, when my stupid cell phone died. So I had to wait until I got home and juiced up my phone before I could call to scream at someone. The final conversation wasn't nearly as climactic as I thought it would be, so I'm not going to transcribe it. Basically, I changed my address online (where I do all my bill paying/banking/etc) when I bought my house a year ago. But it was somehow saved as a "secondary address" because you have to call in to change the address officially. It would be nice to know that. Maybe you could post something somewhere, oh, I don't know - ONLINE. Also, they apparently didn't even have my mother's maiden name on file, so that's why it didn't "match." But then why was he even asking for my mother's maiden name, if he could see that field was blank? Whatever.
Anyway, I told them to take me off their calling list. Hopefully Ray doesn't call me back. Cuz I'd give him the what-for. That's right: the what-for. And nobody likes getting the what-for.
Background info: I had been getting calls on my cell from some weird 800 number that never left messages. After getting 3 calls in one day, I called the number back, just to see who it was. It was "Capital One" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).
"Customer Service" Rep: Thank you for calling Capital One, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been getting tons of calls from you guys for the last two days, and I just wanted to call and make sure there was nothing weird going on with my account.
Rep: Oh, I would be happy to help you with this, Ms Harris. We are so pleased that you have taken the time to contact us with your concerns. Please allow me a moment to access your account.
Me: Ok. Sure.
Rep: Hmmm. Well, I don't see anything strange going on with your account. It is in good standing.
Me: Ok, well why are they calling me?
Rep: Well, perhaps they are trying to offer you a service of some kind. Or maybe not.
Me: Ok, what?
Rep: They may be trying to contact you to offer you a service. But they might not be.
Me: Shouldn't you know why they are calling me 3 times a day?
Rep: I don't see that anyone has left you a voicemail.
Me: I know - that's my point. I don't understand what they want.
Rep: Yes, ma'am.
Me: Yes, what? I don't understand what you're saying to me.
Rep: Thank you for taking the time to contact us with your concerns. You are a valued customer. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms Harris?
Me: Apparently not. (Click.)
Ok, then yesterday on the way home, the same number called me for the fourth time that day. I was pissed off, so I just answered the stupid call.
Me: Hello? Hello?
Telemarketer: (Click, long pause) Hello, may I please speak with Henrietta Harris?
Me: This is she. Is this Capital One?
T: Yes, this is Ray with Capital One. Can you please verify your zip code?
Me: Sure. 90210.
T: Hmmm. That's not correct.
Me: Well, yes it is. I'm pretty sure I know my zip code.
T: Is 90210 your area code? I need your zip code, ma'am.
Me: Well, since area codes are 3 digits, and zip codes are 5 digits, I'm pretty sure 90210 is my zip code.
T: Hmmm. How about your mother's maiden name?
Me: Taylor.
T: Taylor - is that T-A-I-L-E-R?
Me: No. So close. T-A-Y-L-O-R.
T: Hmmm. That's not coming up either. Can I have your social security number?
Me: Ummm, no. You can't. Because all of the info I have given you is correct, and I don't understand why nothing is "coming up" for you.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Listen, if you're trying to sell me some kind of service, I don't want it.
T: I cannot continue this call, as I am unable to confirm that you are Henrietta Harris.
Me: Well, I can't continue this call, because I don't know if you are from Capital One, or just some random rude guy that called to steal my identity.
T: Excuse me, ma'am? Did you just call me rude? I told you at the beginning of the call that I was from Capital One. You have been unable to answer my questions.
Me: OK, first of all you called me. I don't need to answer any of your questions. Secondly, I don't believe you're from Capital One, because you should have all of this information on file. I've had an account with you for 6 years and I'm fairly certain my mother's maiden name hasn't changed since then. How is this info just "magically" not matching up?
T: I'm not sure why it's "magically" not matching up. But this really isn't my problem, is it?
Me: Excuse me?!?
T: Click.
OMG, the a-hole hung up on me. Hell to the no. So I was all ready to call back and get someone fired, when my stupid cell phone died. So I had to wait until I got home and juiced up my phone before I could call to scream at someone. The final conversation wasn't nearly as climactic as I thought it would be, so I'm not going to transcribe it. Basically, I changed my address online (where I do all my bill paying/banking/etc) when I bought my house a year ago. But it was somehow saved as a "secondary address" because you have to call in to change the address officially. It would be nice to know that. Maybe you could post something somewhere, oh, I don't know - ONLINE. Also, they apparently didn't even have my mother's maiden name on file, so that's why it didn't "match." But then why was he even asking for my mother's maiden name, if he could see that field was blank? Whatever.
Anyway, I told them to take me off their calling list. Hopefully Ray doesn't call me back. Cuz I'd give him the what-for. That's right: the what-for. And nobody likes getting the what-for.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Eating Healthy is Dangerous For Your Health
For those of you following at home, most of the boxelder bugs are deceased. I'll admit that I have not shed a single tear over their demise. I'm glad they're dead. I hope it hurt.
Now, on to more pertinent issues.
My husband and I are trying to eat healthier. Yay for us. But last night I learned how eating healthy is dangerous for your health. Very dangerous. So I was packing a lunch for my husband. You know, like a good little wifey. Leftover chicken salad, a pita, some hummus, some almonds, a fiber bar, and a bowl of fruit. Sounds delicious, huh? I had the watermelon, grapes, raspberries and blueberries in the tupperware when I had the great idea to add some kiwi into the mix. So I got out my soft-fruit peeler and started working on the kiwi. Now, for those of you who might not be in the loop, a soft fruit peeler is like a regular peeler, except it has serrated edges - like thousands of tiny, barbed piranha teeth. It really works great - the teeth make it much easier to peel things like kiwi, mangoes, jicama and tomatoes. But it's also evil. Because when you accidentally nick your finger on the downstroke, it's much, much messier. You see, each individual tooth sticks into your fingertip, tilted downward so as to gouge as deeply as possible. Then, with the completion of the downstroke, it rips the gouged skin off and drops it into the sink. At which point you notice the blood. On your kiwi. And running down your hand. Because, like I said - this is not a regular finger wound. This is not simply a scratch, or even a wicked paper cut. This is a mortal flesh wound. I mean, I was faint from loss of blood within a few seconds. I had to lie down. And really, I was out of commission for the rest of the night. I couldn't help with the laundry, I couldn't go get my husband a glass of water. I couldn't even turn my fan on. Too much work. I was seriously injured!
Ok, that was slightly dramatic. But that shit hurt. For real. And I really did see a chunk of my mangled flesh in the sink. That was nasty. And it really did bleed (a lot) for almost 10 minutes. And my darling husband had to run out to the store at 10pm to get me bandaids because we didn't have any in the house. (Thanks, dear.)
Moral of the story - be cautious when using a soft fruit peeler or this could happen to you, too.
(You may be wondering what happened to the bloody kiwi. My husband ate it for lunch today. We just rinsed it off and cut it up. Isn't that nasty? I wouldn't eat it, but he didn't seem to have a problem with it. I'm so grossed out.)
Now, on to more pertinent issues.
My husband and I are trying to eat healthier. Yay for us. But last night I learned how eating healthy is dangerous for your health. Very dangerous. So I was packing a lunch for my husband. You know, like a good little wifey. Leftover chicken salad, a pita, some hummus, some almonds, a fiber bar, and a bowl of fruit. Sounds delicious, huh? I had the watermelon, grapes, raspberries and blueberries in the tupperware when I had the great idea to add some kiwi into the mix. So I got out my soft-fruit peeler and started working on the kiwi. Now, for those of you who might not be in the loop, a soft fruit peeler is like a regular peeler, except it has serrated edges - like thousands of tiny, barbed piranha teeth. It really works great - the teeth make it much easier to peel things like kiwi, mangoes, jicama and tomatoes. But it's also evil. Because when you accidentally nick your finger on the downstroke, it's much, much messier. You see, each individual tooth sticks into your fingertip, tilted downward so as to gouge as deeply as possible. Then, with the completion of the downstroke, it rips the gouged skin off and drops it into the sink. At which point you notice the blood. On your kiwi. And running down your hand. Because, like I said - this is not a regular finger wound. This is not simply a scratch, or even a wicked paper cut. This is a mortal flesh wound. I mean, I was faint from loss of blood within a few seconds. I had to lie down. And really, I was out of commission for the rest of the night. I couldn't help with the laundry, I couldn't go get my husband a glass of water. I couldn't even turn my fan on. Too much work. I was seriously injured!
Ok, that was slightly dramatic. But that shit hurt. For real. And I really did see a chunk of my mangled flesh in the sink. That was nasty. And it really did bleed (a lot) for almost 10 minutes. And my darling husband had to run out to the store at 10pm to get me bandaids because we didn't have any in the house. (Thanks, dear.)
Moral of the story - be cautious when using a soft fruit peeler or this could happen to you, too.
(You may be wondering what happened to the bloody kiwi. My husband ate it for lunch today. We just rinsed it off and cut it up. Isn't that nasty? I wouldn't eat it, but he didn't seem to have a problem with it. I'm so grossed out.)
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