Will It Blend?

Warning: You probably don’t want to read this if you are in any way, shape or form squeamish.

Have you ever done something that was so colossally stupid that you look back on it and wonder how you manage to put your pants on in the morning? Or maybe even how you manage to breathe in and out on a consistent basis? I had one such moment last night.

When my index finger got in between our immersion blender and the dough for some chickpea patties.

I’ll let the wrongness of that statement sink in for a moment.

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Ok, I’m back. 

You might ask yourself, “How in the world did Hope manage to confuse her own index finger with a bunch of chickpeas?” That’s an excellent question and, quite frankly, I’d like to know the answer myself. All I know is, one minute I was holding the blender of doooooooom and the next minute I was staring down at my bloody finger and hoping that it was still in one piece. Lucky for me, it was (mostly) intact. And by “intact” I mean that my bones were all where they were supposed to be. The fleshy parts, on the other hand, looked like they had been attacked by rabid badgers.

Hey, I warned you that this could get gross.

I immediately wrapped my finger up in a paper towel and then sprinted to the bathroom to rinse it off and put a bandage on it. I’ve heard rumors that chickpeas and open wounds don’t mix well and I was in no mood to find out for myself if this was the case. Once I had staunched the bleeding, I indulged in a nice long bout of freaking the fuck out. Bleeding profusely tends to have that effect on me.

With my dumb luck, Kristian was working late and wouldn’t be home until at least 11pm. I gave him a call, but he didn’t answer. “That’s ok,” I said. “He’s at work and therefore busy. I’ll just indulge in another moment of freaking the fuck out.” It took me more time than I’d like to admit that, this being a bona fide emergency, I was entitled to bother Kristian at work and that I could even call him several times if necessary. I’m wicked smart, sometimes.

Long story short, Kristian called a friend of ours who lives nearby. He came right over, took a look at my finger, pronounced it to not need stitches (but just barely! everybody please remember what a brave little camper I am!), cleaned it out and bandaged it up. His efforts were hampered by the fact that he managed to cut a huge gash on his own finger while helping me out.

Apparently our kitchen was a dangerous place to be last night.

I did not help matters much when I acquired a case of the inappropriate giggles.

He retorted that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t felt the need to make chickpea patties and that all this health food nonsense was clearly very bad for me. This somehow stirred up cravings for a Happy Meal.

Anyways, the bleeding stopped (eventually). Kristian came home (eventually). I stopped crying (eventually). 

My finger is currently ensconced in a sterile pad, medical tape and a splint. It hurts like a bitch, but I choose to take that as a happy sign that there is no nerve damage. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to play the guitar again and that scares me. I have a sneaking suspicion that I should probably see a doctor, but I’m not entirely sure what they can do for me at this point. I keep attempting to type with my index finger and failing miserably. 

Kristian wants to get another can of chickpeas and make those patties for dinner tonight.

I’ll be hiding under the bed while he’s cooking.

Update: Kristian convinced me to have a doctor look at it. I’ll let you know what they say this afternoon.