or Chapter 278 in How We Are Slowly Trying to Kill and/or Permanently Maim Ourselves.
this past Saturday, i was putting the dishes from the dishwasher away, and employing the Husband to help.
heck, he helps get 'em dirty, the least he can do is put the clean ones away, right?
whilst this is going on, i'm chatting on the phone with my dear friend Kristie (who reads but never comments. but no pressure. hi sweetie!). i'm handing articles of eating to the Husband, who puts them away. as i hand him a pair of tongs, i say, "can you also fix this?"
see, the little band that keeps the tongs closed has wiggled its way over the nut (not my nut) and i can't move it back.
i turn my attention back to pulling more things out of the dishwasher when i hear:
when i turn around, i see red. on.his.thumb.
see, my Husband, the Rhodes Scholar, decided to use a paring knife to force the band back over the nut. with the blade facing his body.
thankfully, no trip to the hospital was required on this go-round.
and i was always the klutzy one that everyone in my family figured i'd be dead by the time i was 20. by my own undoing.
suddenly i feel like a graceful princess.