This is why I don’t do yard work.

So I cut my finger on Friday doing something I shouldn’t be doing, yard work.

I had big plans for Saturday. Plans many years in the waiting. Previous scheduling conflicts seem like a better excuse than my two hours in the ER giving me three stitches, a splint, and explicit do not use, do not bend, do not get wet instructions. One more summer has passed without my participation in the Annual Canoe Trip. (sad emoticon here)

canoe
I can’t go on the trip, canoe?

When you think about it, my wound is pretty negligible considering the size, blade and power of the tool I was using. It’s a bigun! And I love it! If I have to do yard work, man, I want to cut some damn bushes! What’s that thing Tim Allen always said on Tool Time?
Ar-rar-rar!
Yeah, feel the weight of the electric trimmer, hear the growl, zip, zip, zip, that’s what I’m talking about.

Until it nips you. Then I’m like, yip, yip, yip. All the way to the Emergency Room.

finger

So at the last minute, my annual-miss-the-trip canoe partner went to work and I decided to go to the Second Annual Writers’ Block Party. Well, I hoped to go—it really depended on if I could dress myself without using, bending or getting my finger wet.

I wore a skirt (you try and button your jeans one-handed!) and drove into Elgin for the event.

All the way there, with my elbow resting on the car door handle, my hand erect (it throbs if it’s not upright), I passively-aggressively road raged passersby and thought of better excuses for my injury than the ugly, stupid, scary truth.

Maybe I was wounded in preparation for The Hunger Games 2.0. You know, the one where they draw names of middle-aged moms instead of kids. With Oprah announcing and Target as sponsor.

Knowing my potential audience, I concocted the tale of how I broke my finger catching a foul ball at Wrigley. Did you get the ball? An imaginary conversationalist asks. Yes but I had to throw it back, I’m a Sox fan.

It’s pretty obvious, even more so now, that I suffer from Chronic Fucuitous.

Perhaps I’d been testing my electric defense against the Zombie Apocalypse. It works. Seems to be able to slice through skin just fine.
I have this vision of fingerless zombies clubbing me for my brains, but I’m pretty sure I could zip through their arms—and necks—with ease.

Once I can use, bend and get my finger wet.

yardwork

In the meantime, today is Dave’s birthday.  I’m not flipping you off, honey, I love you.

fubday

Post Script: This blog successfully typed one-handed.

Advertisements

About Mary Fran Says

I am an artist, crafter, designer and writer. I enjoy working with mixed media-- applying visual and tactile manipulations to telling a story. Not a lot of market for that, though, :), so I'm focusing on short story submissions and novel completions. Yes, plural. Lots of beginnings, too many ideas, not enough focus.
This entry was posted in Holidaze, It's all about me, Sure it's funny now and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to This is why I don’t do yard work.

  1. Samantha says:

    Well, I certainly wouldn’t wish you bodily harm with a power tool but I’m glad you made it to the Writers Block Party! (I’m so selfish.)

  2. gail.hummel@yahoo.com says:

    Ouchie! I just cut myself opening my deadbolt! Dork! Tiny cut but painful 😦 feel better, Miss Mary!

    Sent from my iPhone

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s