Appliance Repair Should Be Left to the Pros

What am I doing tonight? Well, thanks for asking.

I'm drinking a glass of wine. To dull the pain. Of being stupid.

You see, our ice maker is broken. And I've fixed it before. So I decided to do it again.

And after I managed to put everything back together, I started the task of removing the ice that had formed, in a long line, down the back of the freezer, underneath where the leak was. My weapon of choice? A kitchen knife. A SHARP kitchen knife.

We (the knife and I) were best of pals down the back wall of the frigid appliance. We even seemed to be on good terms where the freezer sloped down from the back wall to the bottom of the appliance. But, then, without the slighest hint of sarcasm or anger, that SOBK* bit me.

The knife didn't say a word to me before this incident, but the Holy Spirit was screaming inside of me "You shouldn't be using this knife!" ME? Little Miss Independent? Ignored that voice.

I can't tell you how many times, since then, I've called myself an idiot. Said I'm dumb. Relived the fatal moment of contact.

I've bled through four band-aids so far. And I'll probably bleed through a few more before I go to bed. Because, by gosh, I AM NOT GOING TO THE ER WHERE I AM SURE TO CONTRACT HEPATITIS D+, THE AVIAN FLU, and HERPES HARDEX.**

But, honestly, I'm not going to the ER because, even if my finger was hanging on by one thin piece of skin, I have NEVER had stitches*** and I don't intend to start now. My kids have the market cornered on this type of injury repair and I don't want to wade in their pool, thank you.****

So, CHEERS. I am going to keep drinking until I can no longer feel my finger or I just stop caring.

Either way, tomorrow's post may be from a hungover, scar-fingered writer.

WOO and HOO.


*You know I gave up cussing so you also must know that I wouldn't cuss. This stands for Son Of a Butcher Knife.

**Along with my exhaustive appliance defrosting techniques, I have a wicked sense of ignorance about most things medical. But, in this case, I was making stuff up just to see if you read these bottom-dwelling comments. Score one for Team U.

***That's ALMOST true. I've had stitches after delivering all three of my kids, but that doesn't count in my mind, for some odd reason. Most sane women are thinking "but they are stitching up your hoo-hoo and that is just really just adding insult to injury." But, here's the key: I couldn't SEE the stitches going in. And that makes all the difference in the world.

****In other words, I am deathly afraid of that big needle they inject into a cut that already stings like death and I hate the thought of a needle being pulled through my skin as I helplessly watch. SHUDDER.