Sooo…the other night, I’m finishing up with dinner preparation. We were eating rather late because Big Daddy was spending the bulk of the evening on one of his marathon bicycle rides. I heard him come in through the basement after his ride, so I got the slotted spoon to start taking the cabbage out of the pan of water and into a serving bowl. I don’t know if he came home super hungry or what, but for some reason, he starts taking over without saying he was taking over. I mean, you know, had he said, “Go sit down. I’ll finish up here,” I would have gladly left the room. But instead, he gets in my way, knocks the slotted spoon off the counter and as I lunge to catch it before it hits the floor, he stabs me with some sharp utensil that plunges through my hand near the base of my right thumb.
“AAARGHHH“…I grab my wrist and ran toward the powder room, crying and screaming “I’m stabbed, OMG he stabbed me,” and started running cold water on it to stop the blood and hopefully numb the pain. I ran right past Oldest Son, lying on the couch playing some hand held video game. I don’t even think he looked up. Big Daddy comes moseying in, looked at my hand and said surprised, “Oh, it’s bleeding.” Like, no shit, Sherlock, that’s what happens when you pierce living flesh with a sharp object. A minute or two later, Middle Son J comes downstairs and says, “I thought someone was being killed down here.” Well, so proud and happy you came down to intervene on my behalf. At least you didn’t wait until I started to decompose.
Big Daddy was kind enough to bandage my hand with some gauze. “I’m done in here,” I muttered as I left the kitchen and sat in front of the computer to cry and feel sorry for myself. Big Daddy finished getting the corned beef and cabbage to the table, and we all ate. My hand throbbed, but I managed later to put the leftovers away before the food spoiled. I was wondering to myself why hubby wasn’t so eager for kitchen duty now when I actually could use the help.
I left the bulk of the dishes on the counter. My hand hurt and I was feeling depressed. I plopped my butt on my recliner, leaned back, and went to sleep. To his credit, Big Daddy had cleaned up the rest of the kitchen by the time I woke up. I woke up the next morning with a huge headache and some major depression. For some reason, this injury pushed me over the edge. At the risk of sending hubby on some week-long pouting session, I will try to dissect what sent me into a downward spiral, one that caused me to spend the bulk of a beautiful Saturday afternoon in bed, and the rest of the day a snapping bitchy wench. Stay tuned.