We've Seen Worse

Last night, I experienced what my husband is calling a Brownie Attainment Incident.

So, here's what happened:

I arrived home from a full day of work and errands to find a still-warm pan of brownies on the counter. I *had* to try one, of course; not eating one of my aspiring-chef's brownies is tantamount to setting aflame the glitterfied Mother's Day coupon book from third grade. Right? Right. Okay, so with that justification . . . I selected my four square inches of heaven-from-a-box; picked up a nearby, chocolate-covered (steak) knife; and proceeded to separate the brownie from the Pyrex pan.

Note to self: Disclose location of non-stick cooking spray.

Note to self again: Steak knives aren't meant for brownie liberation. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Oh, I neglected to mention that the pan was perched on a flimsy cooling rack. So, I held the pan steady with my left hand while I (a bit overly enthusiastically) ran the knife under a brownie and ...

(You know where this is going, right?)

... straight into the web of skin between my left thumb and index finger.

Mhm. Yes. Yes, that's what I did.

I said, "Ow! Ow ow ow! OW!," dropped the brownie, and ran my hand under the kitchen tap . . . an excruciatingly painful maneuver. Presumably the knife fell out of my hand (I for-certain didn't *remove* it), and just after I wrapped my narrow--but 40-feet deep--wound in a dish towel, I had the wherewithal to put the weapon in the sink . . . saving my family from a reprimand that would've sounded something like, "Hey! Don't use that knife! It's Exhibit B!"

So then came the phone call to Jack. (Jack's pretty much Iron Man when it comes to pain tolerance. Well, except for that one time when he got his index finger stuck in the lid of one of those pop-up cleaning wipe containers. But that's a whole other story.)

• Me (quite calmly): "Hey, honey. How far away are you from bein' home?"

• Jack (just finishing up small group): "I need to put the DVDs away, dump the ice bucket, put up the chairs, re-tile the bathroom . . . "

• Me (still calm, but impatient): "Um, okay. Hey, I stabbed myself getting a brownie out of a pan, and it kinda hurts, and I need your assessment of my need for stitches, so could you ..."

• Jack (donning Super Man cape): "On my way."

So, long story short, we determined the ER was order, just in case I hit something I shouldn't have. (Like there are things that *should* be hit when stabbing oneself with a chocolate-covered steak knife?) Despite the strong temptation to make up a sexier story--maybe something about being stabbed while rescuing endangered pygmy water buffalo--I was honest with the receptionist, triage nurse, nurse practitioner, ER attending physician, and patient care lady. That's right: I admitted to five medical health professionals that "I stabbed myself trying to get a brownie." I gave them permission to use me as their "Can you BELIEVE how stupid some people are?" poster-child, but they seemed thoroughly unimpressed. "Eh. We've seen worse."

So there you have it. Brownie Attainment Incident.

There's an up-side to this. My discharge paperwork includes not only the words laceration and puncture wound, but also stab wound. Yes! So, the next time I'm asked if I've ever had a stab wound, I can say, "Why, yes. Yes, I have." Admittedly, that's not *quite* as cool as being able to respond affirmatively to, "Have you ever been jailed for civil disobedience?" But it's close. 

Darn close.