We EGGcept her...one of us

When I was in middle school, I had a friend named Megan. She was like me: loud, funny, and smart. A lethal combination for parents and teachers alike. The only difference between us was that I was nice and she was mean. What I mean is, whereas Megan would stick her half sisters wet Barbie dolls in the freezer to make them shatter, I would secretly give her sister cheapo Barbie’s because I thought Megan went over the line. And the only reason they were cheap was because I was 14 and had to save up my lunch money to get them. Maybe it was guilt ‘cause I laughed at the shattering, but I thought doing that to a 5 year old was cruel. And yes it gets into her hatred for her step-mom and misplaced anger at the little girl. But that’s not what this is about. This is about the scar on my toe.
Megan’s dad’s kitchen had a linoleum floor. We never thought much of it. In fact, we never even cared about it until Megan dropped an egg. For reasons I can no longer wrap my brain around, Megan, rather than cleaning it up, stepped on the uncooked yolk and white matter. Megan commented on how slippery it was. Megan convinced me to do the same. I vaguely remember how slimy and cold it was. I really remember how slippery it was. Megan and I tried to spread the egg over more of the kitchen floor. We found a new game. When the egg could not satisfy how much we needed to cover the entire kitchen floor, Megan broke another egg. And then another. And then…well, Megan and I emptied out a whole carton. The floor of her kitchen was now essentially an egg skating rink. The smell was making us dry heave, but the fact that we were sliding all over was totally worth it. We started attempting triple sow cows, and double turns and spinning and all these stupid ice skating tricks that neither of us could do. I remember laughing so hard, mixed with this vomit inducing smell that I didn’t know if I should be more worried about horking or peeing. I laughed so hard at one point that I had doubled over. This now changed my center of balance. So I stood up quickly. That again made me unbalanced. At this point, I am now moving my torso up and down as if I’m pushing one of those old school railway cars. When my torso couldn’t handle it anymore, one leg went out. I tried to tell it to come back, and when it did the other jutted out just as fast. I ended up looking like a Russian dancer, with one leg quickly replacing the other. I’m sure if you got a video of it in slow mo, at one point both of my legs would’ve been off the ground. Like that old video about racehorses. And whether or not all their legs were off the ground at the same time. I was able to do this for about 60 seconds. And I honestly thought I would have been able to finally regain my balance. But mixing the laughing, with the dry heaving, with my newly found Russian heritage, I landed on my butt with a resounding thud. Upon my graceful landing, her stove bottom sliced my big toe. It wasn’t a bad slice. Just enough for me to have a scar. Not a ton of blood. Like a paper cut. What hurt the most was making it to her bathroom and trying not to leave a trail of pee there. Megan on the other hand, couldn’t make it that far. Plus, what I saw in my head, she saw in real life. Megan peed. I had made Megan pee in her pants. She walked to the bathroom defeated. After many many minutes in the bathroom, she finally came out, and couldn’t look me in the eye. Clean up might have been the worst thing I could ever imagine. We mixed lemon scented dishwashing soap with this raw egg yuck and now Megan’s pee. I think we told her parents we were trying to make a soufflé we learned about in cooking class. And even if they didn’t buy it, there is no way that they would have ever figured out the truth. I sometimes wonder if she ever told them. But more than that, I sometimes want to go egg skating again.

Oh finger, where art thou?

Sometimes I do things that, when I look back, are quite possibly the dumbest things in the history of mankind. Take for example when I fought with a police officer about how not only did I NOT deserve a ticket, but that if he ignorantly insisted upon issuing one, I would fight tooth and nail that he receive five. (I didn’t get the ticket, and yes he walked away apologizing and repeating he would pay more attention, but Jesus! What the hell was I thinking?) And then there was the time that time in high school….or all the times in high school is more like it. High school is a story unto itself. It was too ridiculous to just be a blurb. But, I do believe that me cutting off the tip of my finger may be just about the dumbest thing ever.
Back story…I had 10 wonderfully rounded, super cute, super slender phalanges. Each one more perfect than the last. And all of them were mine. This, I suppose, is the story of how one went away. Or awry. Never to be seen again. GONE. AWOL. POW. (The tip of the finger I lost was apparently in charge of getting to the story without the uber long lead in, I’m sure it will be greatly missed.)
Ok, so Monday morning, I’m at work. I got there early. There was less traffic than normal. I made the most delicious coffee. I bought frozen waffles!!! The stars were aligned that it was going to be a great day.
I skip into work and basically share a diddy with all the nearby woodland creatures. It was going to be amazing.
I end up opening a box that wasn’t addressed to me, but you know what? I am helpful. I am there early. I have nothing to worry about. It was going to be a momentous day.
(Here is what I didn’t know. Some gnomes or trolls, I think trolls, changed my normal scissors with, what can only be described as, razor sharp ninja blades.)
So I’m opening this box on what is now referred to as the day that was supposed to be the greatest ever when… (Insert knife cutting into a tomato sound) my fingertip went missing. The pain wasn’t instant. In fact, it hurt a trifle bit less than a paper cut. I didn’t realize what happened until I went to the restroom to get a Band-Aid. That’s when I saw it. Or more appropriately, I didn’t see it. The blood was secondary at this point. And the fact that that amount of blood was secondary flipped me out. So I ran out of the restroom and sat at one of my friends’ desks. I said, “ Hey, I’m just gonna chill here for a bit. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You don’t even need to talk to me. Just look at me periodically to see if I’m cool.” Well, obviously my chill method (think Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High) fell on deaf ears, because she immediately started fanning me. Then someone else came by and gave me a cookie. And then it became, “what the hell happened to Natasha” day.
I went through seven Band-Aids. And by went, I mean I bled through them. And by bled though I mean completely saturated them. I layered about 3 of them at a time. And the brilliance of this whole thing was that I didn’t show anyone. So only I knew why my caged finger was singing. I didn’t think it was that bad, but when 5 hours passed and I was STILL bleeding like it was going out of style, the editor of Ms. asked to see it.
I thought she was going to hork.
I immediately got ushered out of the office and into my car with a ton of cotton gauze thingies and was basically reprimanded for not going to the E.R. earlier.
The E.R. was a joke. I was there for 3 hours and left with a Band-Aid and a tetanus shot. And I was STILL bleeding the next day. But, I did leave work early. And my parents DID meet me in the E.R. And we DID all go to dinner that night. And I DID get a ton of sympathy the next day. But man, I miss my finger. (And I think I damaged the nerve. Of all the nerve! ) (See, I decided to do a tap dancing routine and when I did the windmill thing with my arms, I got a weird sensation at the tip. But I guess that will be another post. By the way, this post was typed with only 9 fingers.) (Sad face)

(this made me laugh out loud)