Cut it Out

I recently became the proud owner of a very sharp, professional chef’s knife. When we purchased it, the salesman would not even allow me to carry it to the checkout counter. He did let me hold a variety of choices, but hovered over me like I was a terrorist with a box cutter. I’m not sure if that was for my protection or his, but either way it was weird. I could stab someone with a pencil if I really wanted to, so I’m not sure what all the precautions were about.

Yesterday Dewie was using my new knife to slice up some oranges. I was pulled to the kitchen by a particularly long string of expletives delivered in a panicked voice. By the time I arrived in the room, she was shaking and crying, unable to put together simple sentences.  Bear in mind that this is a grown woman; a fully adult mature human being.

“Hey, look at me. Calm down. Breathe. Did you cut yourself?”

“Y-y-y-y-essssss.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Y-y-y-yessss.”

“Let me see. “ She shakes her head. “Dewie! Give me your hand.” She holds up her finger, tightly wrapped in her hand. There is no sign of blood yet. “Open your hand.” (sob, sob, sob) “Come on. Open your hand.”

I inspect the cut and it is bleeding, but not too badly. It’s just enough to pool and drip at a very slow rate. It’s one of those cuts with the useless flap of skin that gets caught on things and causes excruciating pain. It’s not deep at all, and it’s about half a centimeter long. “Alright. That flap of skin is probably going to die, so do you want me to cut it off now or try to save it?”

“No (sob) cut (sob).”

“Ok, wrap this paper towel around it and squish it really tight. I’ll be right back.”  As I dig through the linen closet looking for the first aid box I can hear her quietly mumbling “It hurts. It hurts. I’m going to bleed to death and die.” And I lose it. I’ve tried to be patient, but now it’s just funny. Still giggling, I spray the cut with antiseptic. This brings on the ridiculous reaction of whining and dancing around the kitchen. It’s still bleeding so I put a bandage around it.

Four hours later I ask her how it is and she holds up her purple band aid and says, “It’s still bleeding, see?” There is indeed a small blood stain that can be seen through the bandage. It’s dry.

“Honey, I think that’s old blood. It’s dried. If you were still bleeding, you’d be dead by now.”

“It still hurts. It feels like it should still be bleeding.”

“Let’s take a look.” She carefully peels the band aid off like she’s uncovering a surgery incision. It’s dried up and the skin flap is definitely dead. “Ok, you can leave this skin flap on, but it’s going to get caught on stuff and cause you a lot of pain. It’s also going to increase your chance of infection. It needs to come off.”

“But it’s good skin.”

“It’s dead. Healthy skin is not gray. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I grab the first aid kit again and a pair of cuticle scissors. “Gimme your finger.” She lets out a whiny type sound. “Give it to me.” She slowly moves it toward me and I quickly lop off the skin flap with the scissors.

“Ow! Wait, that actually feels better.”

“Stay tuned.” I take out the bottle of new skin. “Ok, I’m going to fill this divot with new skin. It’s gonna sting like a bitch, but once it dries it’s going to feel much better.” She looks at me with squinchy eyes.

“It’s going to sting really bad?”

“I said, ‘like a bitch’, that means really bad.”

“No.”

“Take a deep breath.”

“No.” I drop a dab of New Skin in the cut. Dewie reacts like her finger is stuck in the mouth of a wild animal.

“Don’t wave it. Hold it still.”

“It would hurt less if you stabbed me in the face!”

“Shut up. You’re such a baby. Don’t move it until it’s dry.”

After 10 minutes of whining, she taps on the now hardened new skin.

“Hey. It feels fine now.”

Shocking.

Wanna Pickle?

I was making a grocery store run, minding my own business when I suddenly heard someone call my name. I looked in the general direction of the sound and saw a previous neighbor flapping her arms like a pair of skinny chicken wings. She was pushing a cart with a tiny person in the baby seat. It was Jessica. She and her dope slinging boyfriend had lived across the street from us a couple of years ago. They regularly entertained the neighborhood with loud, screaming, frothing at the mouth, meth fueled throw downs in the front yard. She may be a tiny little thing, but she was insane, and everyone knows that crazy trumps strength any day of the week. And now she wants to reminisce.  Great. I made eye contact so I have to go over. For additional clarity I will type the actual conversation in regular type and my thoughts in italics.

“Hey Molly! Do you remember me?”

“Of course. It’s good to see you. Cute kid. Is this a new one?”

“Yeah, she’s only 8 months. My other baby is walking and talking now. Can you believe that?” Well, yeah it’s been like two years, so unless she’s retarded, babies tend to do that. Or is she already on the pipe?

“Wow. Already, huh? Well it was nice seeing you.” Walk away slowly.

“This baby’s name is Hannah Lee. All one word.” Son of a… “I thought that was so cute when I thought of it. Don’t you love that name?”

“It sounds like a perfect place for Puff to frolic in the autumn mist.”

She tilts her head to the side and twists her face into what I assume it confusion. “I don’t get it.”

“Nevermind. It’s just an old song you’ve probably never heard. Nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, I really liked the name. Except we spell it J-A-N-N-I-L-E-I-G-H. You know like the Spanish people say jalapeno? Isn’t that clever?” Seriously? Good lord. Her ‘I’m bored’ detector has been seriously compromised. Be nice…Molly! Damnit!

“Well are you going to go around introducing her by saying her name then spelling it for the rest of her life?”

“Uh…no?”

“Then who gives a crap how it’s spelled? All you’ve done is guarantee that her name will never be pronounced or spelled correctly on the first try. “

“Well, maybe you don’t get it.” Ahh. A crack. She starting to sound annoyed. Maybe I can make a break for it. Must soldier on.

“Maybe not. And while I’m sure that Spanish people have uttered the word ‘jalapeno’ I’m pretty sure you mean Mexican. They speak Spanish, but they’re Mexican.”

“It just seems mean to call them Mexicans.”

“You do understand that they’re from Mexico, right?” I back away slowly.

“I guess. Hey! Before you go, Hannah Lee (I know, but I refuse to spell it that way, it’s stupid.) has been doing this really adorable thing lately. I asked her if she wanted a pickle the other day and she scrunched up her face all cute. Now she does it all the time. Watch. “Hannah Lee, you wanna pickle? You wanna pick-le? Hannah Lee, you wanna pickle? I swear she does it. Hannah Lee? Wanna Pickle? Pick-le? I swear she does this scrunchy thing with her face it’s so funny. Hannah lee? Pick-le?” The baby is just looking at her with the same expression on her face that I likely have on mine. Poor kid. If she’d known what she was in for she’d probably have tied a noose in that umbilical cord.

“Uh…it’s ok. I don’t think she’s feeling it.”

“But it’s so cute. Hannah Lee? You wanna pick-le?”

“Christ! She’s a baby not a damned German Shepard. She doesn’t want to do tricks.” I back further away. I’m really at the end of my “nice” rope.

“I guess not. She’s started dancing too. Wanna see her dance?” That’s it. I’ve had enough.

“Uh, no. Not really. I’ll see you later. “ I can hear hear voice trailing behind me as I walk away.

Kidding Around

Believe it or not, not every woman on the planet yearns to procreate. I have never been one of those girls that dreamed of having a baby. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids. Sometimes. But therein lays the problem. After a significant chunk of time has elapsed, kids just get on my last damn nerve and I have to give them back to their rightful owners before I hurt them. My time limit is usually about 8 hours. Sometimes less, sometimes more, but that’s about average. So when people say to me, “You’re so great with kids, why don’t you have any of your own?” it just rubs me the wrong way. I am forced to say, “I don’t want them.” And this evokes a shocked reaction that makes me appear to be a selfish tool. So here it is, for the last time. I don’t want kids, and here’s why:

1.       I have issues with clutter. When there’s a lot of stuff lying around, I feel like I can’t breathe.  Sometimes when I go into the homes of friends with small children I have to force myself to not act like a neurotic lunatic. The amount of colorful plastic crap covering the floor and every surface in the house is so uncomfortable to me, I often find myself making organized piles without even realizing it. I am aware that it’s offensive but I honestly don’t even realize I’m doing it. I’ve heard the question, “Are you cleaning my house?” more than once and I can only uncomfortably answer with, “Apparently. Sorry about that.”

2.       I secretly have bad, non-maternal thoughts about people’s kids. A person that I hardly know, but apparently thinks we’re BFF’s showed me a picture of her toddler in a store recently. “Isn’t she just precious?” To which I answered, “The precious-est.” But what I was really thinking was, “It must be really hard to love a kid that ugly. Seriously, that’s just side-show ugly. Was her daddy an oompa-loompa? ”

3.       I am selfish. I know that the first time I have to stay home when I really want to go out because I have a kid, I’m going to resent having it. I am also at the age when I don’t recover from going out as quickly as I used to. It’s all well and good to get a sitter for the night, but what about the next day when I feel like crap, but I have to be “mommy”? I am even more selfish when I’m forced to reside in a dehydrated shriveled up pile of toxic waste shell of a body. In this condition it would not seem unreasonable for me to lock a kid in their room with a box of Cheerio’s and a bowl of water.

4.       My gene pool. The only positive things I can think of that I could pass onto a child are a high IQ and good teeth. This would be fantastic if it weren’t coupled with a slew of other obstacles that are lurking around in there, like alcoholism, obesity, crippling depression, poor eyesight and diabetes, just off the top of my head. These things are not the legacy I want to leave to future generations and I certainly don’t want to curse a child with them.

5.       I have to work at it to be “kid friendly.” Maybe this is why kids exhaust me after a day or so. The constant censoring of my language is tiring. What’s worse is that I find a toddler swearing absolutely hilarious. Especially if it’s unprovoked and the swear word is used properly. I have learned that no matter how much you try to hide it, kids can just sense when you are amused by something.  This will cause them to do whatever the offensive behavior is over and over and will not hesitate to do it in public.

So the point is, I like this arrangement. Bring me your children when I ask for them so I can play with them and teach them cool stuff, then come get them right before their child-like behavior starts getting on my nerves. And stop asking, because no matter how unbelievable you may think it is, no, I don’t want any of my own.