Monday, August 22, 2011

Watch your step

Marianna Annadanna here with this week's wicked-ass theme. 

I don't know about you guys, but I am fairly, um, uncoordinated?  Accident prone?  Susceptible to injury? 

Ok.  I'm an effing clumsy fool. 

I'm pretty much constantly nursing one wound or another.  And usually my wounds are in some way self-inflicted. 

Just the other day, in fact, I had to amputate my left hand.  I was also recently attacked in my parking lot.  And once my vacuum cleaner impaled my ribs.  Even Hubby is not immune - I think my clutsy-ness is contagious.

However, I am SURE I'm not the only one.  How many of you have injured yourself?  Or been injured as an "innocent" by-stander?  Or injured someone else?  By accident?  On purpose? 

I'm sure there are many of us.  And I want to feel better about myself, so I need to hear your stories. 

Email us at !  Send us the text of your injury story (or a link to it) and we'll post it here for all to see.  Like a support group.  Or a roast.  Whichever. 


I'm going to sue my best friend

We were at my best friend's cottage this weekend and I may have to amputate my left hand.

I think I could live without my left hand if I really had to, but if I do have to cut it off, I will most certainly sue my best friend for mal-treatment via cottage dock and severe emotional trauma. 

I was TRYING to do something nice, too. One of my fellow cottage guests thought it would be a good idea to put her dog into the canoe. I don't know about you, but I know very few people who can stay balanced in a canoe, let alone a damn dog.

So I was trying to help the friggin thing out of the boat, leaning over the edge of the dock. (And I can neither confirm nor deny the consumption of alcohol on said dock - because that could be detrimental to the outcome of my legal proceedings.) I was kneeling on the dock, leaning over the side into the canoe and trying to help Hubby lift the doggie to safety.

Well. Somehow I shoved my hand into the edge of the dock and managed to jam 324 pieces of ancient wood chips into my palm. And it's possible that something I ate or drank - I'm not sure what - may have inhibited my ability to recognize and respond to my impending panic attack.

Basically, I shouted at nobody in particular, showed my bloody wound to Hubby, and then took off up to the cottage to find... I don't know what.

Luckily my nurse friend Sarah was able to save me from this crisis situation by offering to conduct a cottage-style open-hand surgery.

I sat at the picnic table with my left hand face up on the table and my right hand on my white wine anaesthesia while Nurse Sarah dug out the 752 pieces of dock shrapnel that were embedded into my flesh.

I tried to read a book as a form of distraction, but mostly every other word just came out as "fuck".

Our other friend came up to table and told me that Hubby asked if I was ok. I looked up, and there was Hubby frolicking in the lake beneath a capsized canoe. "Yeah. He looks really concerned."

In the end, Nurse Sarah couldn't even get the last bastard piece of shrapnel out of my hand. She said the laceration below was a hindrance to a safe operation. And she didn't have her scalpel. She said my skin will hopefully discharge the foreign body within a day or two.

Either that, or we'll have to amputate.

And by the looks of it, it'll be the second one.


Given that my palm is two times its normal size, leaking some really nasty shit, and isn't even the correct flesh colour anymore, I went to see a nurse today. After digging around in my hand for a few minutes she determined that I'll have to come back for another medical "procedure" on Thursday.


Ok.  Don't be shy.  Email us your injury post, and link it up here.  And don't forget to check out this week's Spreadable Cheese