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)

Dancing with the Floor

Something kinda funny about me: stress affects me physically, not mentally. Is that funny? Hmm, not really. Say it in an Italian accent. There, now it’s kinda funny. I have a couple of back-stories, that we can laugh about now, but at the time they were terrible.
April 2006: I had just been accepted to Art Center, I was in the midst of a firestorm of controversy at the middle school I was working at, my two best friends had broken up…with each other (time management, trying to be unbiased, and having to be the shoulder to cry on…suck fest ’99!) (as I am trying to hone in on all the things, I realized there was a crap load! More than I had even thought initially. Wow, I’m amazing! But this isn’t a Debbie Downer story, so I'll leave you with those.)
Ok, new paragraph, new start.
So when I’m stressed, I don’t eat. I have no appetite. Some people cuddle up with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and watch reruns of friends. I, instead, try to remain as normal as possible and do things that I would normally do, but without…you know…people fuel. Ok, so back to story at hand. We were invited to some music recital for a friend that was getting her Masters in Public Performance from USC. As we were sitting in the non-denominational church that also doubled as a piano recital place, I started feeling hot. No big whoop, everyone thought it was hot. But then, during the intermission, when we were all outside, I started really getting hot. So I took off my jacket and sweater. Mind you, it was about 63 degrees out. Very odd for me to NEED to cool down. Anywho, intermission over, we all trudge back in. The church is unbearably hot and I feel…unusual. I ask around for water. Water ain’t helping nuthin’. I get panicky. The guy I was with looks at me and says,” are you okay?” “I just need to use the restroom, I’m okay.” I push my way through the pews and bolt through the doors. I desperately try to find the restroom and when I do, I curse that it’s down a long hall. I start running down the hall thinking, “Please please please just don’t let me puke in a fucking hall.”
Everything goes white.
I open my eyes. Really heavy eyelids. This process takes minutes. I’m staring at the wood molding on the floor. I’m on a marble floor. First thought that comes to mind, “ I CANNOT believe that asshat took me to a party and just let me sleep in some weird room!” I hear music. I have no idea where I am. My head is sore and my knee is bleeding. I try to sit up. That’s when I realize I had fainted. I get up, kinda, and make my way to the restroom. I look in the mirror and have a massive goose egg on the side of my forehead that is just getting bigger by the minute. All veiny and throbbing. I wash my face, wash my knee (that now has a scar from this night) and place my hair in such a way that my new bump wont be visible. I go back to the main hall, steal a cookie (for sugar) and wait for the song to be over to go sit back inside. When I sit down, my date asks me if I’m ok. I say, "Yeah, I was just tired." He smiles and, like he had a freaking bump detector, kisses my freaking forehead bump. I flinch and make a tiny noise. He gives me a look and like moves my hair aside. “Did you get into a fight in there? What the hell happened?” “Nothing, I’ll explain later.” I guess I like being stoic.
Recital is over, we all pile out. I’m feeling uber weak and jell-o leggy. I sit down and, much to my chagrin, start telling him what happened. But not as dramatic. “Eh, I passed out. Not a big deal. Are you going to eat that strawberry?” Before he could get another word out of me, I jam the strawberry in my mouth and take about 10 minutes to consume it. And when anyone came by to ask me questions, I shrugged and pointed to my mouth. This fun encounter also left me with a fun concussion. For three weeks I wasn’t able to decipher personalized license plates (on of my FAVORITE things in the world.) and I was not funny at all. Nor did I understand jokes. It was a very bizarre time.
I have another pass out story, but this got too long. I’ll write it tomorrow.
Anyway, I recently celebrated the fact that it had been an entire year since I last passed out.
And then today…due to everything going on in my stupid world, (which I totally thought I was handling nicely, considering) I get up from my seat to get water and immediately see white and made myself sit down. I didn’t pass out. Imagine: me and Marie Osmond in the same week. At least I would have been in good company…kinda.