Tuesday, November 21, 2006


big man (with Buncos)

Earlier today I volunteered to host the extensive extended family for dinner etc one day this weekend, to take some pressure offa Ma.

Not an hour later I dropped a large pickle jar fulla preserved lemons on the tip of my third finger.

I'm glad I prevented the jar from falling, if it had broken we woulda had to move. Strong smellin stuff.

The pain, however, was the worst pain I can recall in my life. Worse than when I broke my arm. Worse than the time I sliced the tip of my pinkie off with the mandoline. I saw stars. I could not speak. As I cringed on the floor cradling my hand with my eyes squeezed shut mouthing syllables of pain, I became aware that both boys, who react to each others' moments of woe with 100% opaque indifference, were standing by me patting me on the head and face.

Big Man, peering into my eyes, asked, "Are you saying 'ow'?"

I nodded, still unable to speak. He said, "Are you saying 'yes'?"

I don't know why but that cracks me up.

Most of my left hand is out for the count, with days of cooking & cleaning ahead of me. Plus it is hours later and still hurting like a bastard. A purple, swollen bastard.