Wintry Mix Day

Yesterday in regions north of Atlanta, we had a Wintry Mix day. This is what we call rain, sleet, and pellets of ice that no one can play in, basically a bunch of wet slush—if you threw it at someone you’d have a lawsuit on your frozen hands. Since I wasn’t going anywhere (and it really isn’t necessary for the less thoughtful of you to point out this as my usual condition) I was wearing my house attire. That’s what I call it. My family calls it “When are you going to throw that in the garbage?” Jack calls it, “No, I’m going to use it as a grease rag and that’s final.”

Anyway, I decided to make something for dinner on this rare occasion when we were all home, and I proceeded to open a can of peas. Just as I was rounding the 360 a little voice said to me, “Now don’t cut your hand on that.” Immediately the back lid of the can popped up and did the damage that I wasn’t willing to look at, but felt immediately. This kind of premonition is really pretty worthless. It’s like your parachute not opening and just before you hit the ground a little voice whispers, “Stay in the plane.”

Now I’m noticing here how many p’s are in this missive because my little finger is wrapped (there they are again) in an inch of gauze and those p’s are painful (Damn!) to type (Ouch). Yes, I cut it from the tip (Darn!) down to the bone and it was a real bleeder. I then learned that in my next emergency, I should dress before alerting anyone to the possibility (ouch again) that I might need stitches. Son and husband panicked (ouch) and started shuttling me out the door. I Protested (I’m just going to caPitalize them from now on to denote Pain) that I needed to Put on some jeans in Place of my Victoria Secret leggings: ten years old, holes in the seams, not a good look at my age esPecially from the rear view, and anything besides my Pajama top. Jack grabbed a sleeveless sweatshirt and started shouting, “Where’s the front of this damn thing?” as he Pulled it over my head and Pushed me out the door with my son shouting, “Just go! Forget the jeans!” I had been double-teamed and was very unkemPt.

Jack, for some reason, doesn’t get warm and fuzzy during such times. He morPhs into the Commander of the Wounded. As we sat in the waiting room of the urgent care center, he snaPPed orders at me: “Sit still! Hold your hand uP! Where are you going? Stay in your seat! Don’t look at it! StoP! Go! Put Pressure on it I tell you!”

I thought about mouthing the words “HelP me” to some of the others in the waiting room. When the blood started running down my arm, Jack went into “Terms of Endearment” mode, ran to the recePtion desk and demanded gauze or something! They took me into a room at that Point. “Don’t want me to bleed in front of the customers?” I quiPPed. They laughed but I think they were trying to calm Jack down.

Anyway, a tetanus shot, four stitches, and a PrescriPtion for antibiotics later, I just took my first shower after “the incident.” I didn’t have any baggies and I am now thoroughly convinced that the inventor of Cling WraP was/is a sadist. It’s difficult enough to get the first round out to wraP uP the hand, but once you have only one hand available, getting more of the stuff off the roll is Pretty dicey. A little voice said, “Now you’re going to cut your other hand off on the jagged edge thing on the box you idiot.” This time I listened and secured the rest of the stuff with rubber bands. All in all, it wasn’t such a bad Wintry Mix day and I learned something from the exPerience: it is virtually imPossible to wash your left armPit without the use of your right hand, and there sure are a lot of P's in the English language.