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)

Once upon a time...

Last night all I wanted to do was go to sleep. I came home, had a friend over from school, (‘cause I’m five years old? That sounds so lame) we ate and I asked him what was the haps with his life. He gave me some pretty heart crushing news and we ended up talking for about an hour outside. I told him he is now the equivalency of a remote control that you insist on still using and try to make it work by pushing the buttons harder. Not admitting that you need to recharge the batteries or get new ones or whatever you crazy kids do now a days with you and your batteries. He got it and said, “Natasha, that is exactly how I feel! Damn, you are good!” I know. It’s a gift. Random analogies are my contribution to the world at large. Anyway, when I came back inside, I was a little worse for the wear and all I wanted to do was sleep. My dim sum and then some friend insisted on reading me a story. I don’t know why, I don’t get it, I don’t know what spawned this. But, I said fine. She ended up starting to read me the saddest bastard story I had ever come across. What the hell is that? I turned to her and said, “This isn’t going to work. I want a happy book. Let me choose a book.” She got more than a little irritated. As I’m looking, she says she wants to read some book about starfish. I tell her no. Then I start talking to her and I tell her a story about when I was in high school and she had the audacity to tell me to stop talking, she wants to read to me. At this point, I sit up in bed and tell her, “I didn’t want to be read to, I just wanted to talk to you!” She noticed that she was acting more than a little Mommy Dearest and said, “I’m going to the living room to finish my beer.” I am 26. My friend is 27. And yet I still somehow managed to have the worst night of my childhood with someone who wasn’t even present in my childhood. I hope she gets me a toy today to make up for it. Oh my God, that would SO make up for it! I need to go plant the seed of toy in her brain. Toys are so much better than flowers and chocolate.

My gradual decent into a life I never meant

Disneyland is always fun. When I was younger and would see adults there without kids and I would think, “ What the hell? They aren’t going to have any fun!” Now that I’m older I don’t think I’ve gone with kiddos at all. So imagine my surprise when my brother and sister-in-law invited me this Thursday to Disneyland. They have three little boys. Jackson is turning six on Tuesday (Hence the Disneyland trip) Rory is four and Tanner is three. Jackson is a lot of talk and more than not will not want to go on anything. Rory is renegade and will ride anything. Tanner…hmmmm, Tanner will probably sit next to me and tell me baby jokes. Or talk about poop. That’s all he does now. I think the adult to kid ratio will work out. Jackson will want toys, Rory will want food and Tanner will want me to sing him songs about Spiderman being a baby and needing a diaper change. The more I think about this, the more I wonder if this is going to be enjoyable. I bet it will totally be fun and exhausting and challenging and at worst, I will have a crap load of amazing stories. Maybe I can convince my sister-in-law to dress them up in their Halloween costumes! One fact remains though, regardless of what kid has what meltdown or whatnot: I am not going on those stupid teacups! That’s not a freaking ride, that’s a torture chamber!