Uh…Gina…I think I hurt myself real bad.

We originally moved into our current apartment because of the cheery window light that flows in during the afternoon hours. It was hard to find an apartment with more than two windows, with said windows not facing into a parking lot, brick wall, or other apartment. All of the previous apartments we had checked out seemed to share the dark and damp familiarity of a spelunking cave, complete with a suspicious mildew smell.

Granted, our blinds stay closed most of the time… especially after seeing the notice out by the mailboxes warning us of a neighborhood peeping Tom. But, at least we have the option to bathe ourselves in luxurious window light if we so chose to brave our outdoor environment.

Our apartment is a typically shady, twenty something’s place of residence. Layers of paint cling to our kitchen cabinets adding actual width to their seems and making it difficult if not impossible to close them. On move in day, we discovered what seemed to be left over blood spatter on the vertical blinds in our living room… a special gift to us from the previous tenants. We do not have lavish amenities, let alone such upgraded basics as central air, or a dishwasher. I was actually really put off by the lack of dishwasher, until Peter made me a pinky promise (which we all know is contractually binding) to BE the dishwasher, as long as we agreed to take the apartment. Apparently doing dishes relaxes him, or some zen bullshit like that. We shook on it, and thus it has been so. I am not an idiot… the man agreed to do my dishes indefinitely. Sold.

Now, neither of us are particularly graceful people… I might even go so far as to say we are a tad bit accident prone. Add our already clumsy mannerisms into a kitchen full of slippery soap, water, cutlery, and glass… and well, there are bound to be some incidents.
One evening a few years back, I had retired to the office in order to edit a photo or two, while Peter had “volunteered” to do the dishes. While airbrushing the extensive pore marks off some girls face, I hear Peter calling out to me from the kitchen: “Uh…GINA….I think I hurt myself real bad.” OH NO. The quivering tone of his voice implied injury. I hurried to his aid, only to find a grotesque scene. There was Peter clutching his hand, flailing it about in a state of panic… blood was everywhere. The flailing was not helping this cause, and made for blood spatter on the kitchen walls, ceiling, and top of the fridge.( Maybe future tennants will find evidence of this night upon their move in day…hmmm.) This is not even mentioning the already existing pools of red that had formed on the floor, or the sink bathed in a solid wash of bloody pink.

I was a little shocked by the intensity of the scene. I sat peter down, getting him a towel for the blood and a Capri Sun to keep him from fainting. He was loopy. I gave him another Capri Sun. The towel was filling with blood. It was time to go to the ER. He managed to see a doctor quickly. Apparently you have “priority” over other patients if you are what they call “openly bleeding”. He managed to get priority over some kid who had run his bike and forehead into the tow hitch on the back of his fathers truck. Messy. The blood did not stop until the sixth stitch was put into his hand. He still has numbness in the thumb on that hand…

That my friends, was only the FIRST insident due to our absent dishwasher. Thankfully, that was the only one that has required immediate emergency medical attention, and hefty medical billing.

Peter has cut himself numerous times… one of which being last night, NOT washing dishes, but rather putting away a pan. Perhaps this shall give you a picture of the cramped quarters of our kitchen. There was a surrated knife in the drying rack, and as Pete bent down to put the pan away, the top of his wrist caught the knife, making a snagging sensation. It wasn’t until he realized that there was SKIN on the freshly washed knife, and that his wrist was indeed stinging and bleeding, that he came to grips with what had just occured. I was repulsed by this wound. Maybe more so than the original bloodbath scene of his first ER worthy cut. This cut was jagged, oozing, and looked like a sea urchin due to the bits of skin hanging on in different places. After bandaging that cut up… we both agreed that we should probably wash that knife again, since neither of us are particularly cannibalistic.

I, although not a main participant in the dishes, can also be on the losing end of the battle of Us VS. Kitchen. One evening when Peter McButterfingers dropped a glass, it shattered all over the linoleum. He thought he had cleaned it up thoroughly, until the following evening my detective of a large toe seemed to sniff out the case of the missing glass shard. I looked down at my chunky big toe to find a decently sized glass shard lodged in it’s fleshy padding. I pulled it out revealing a gushing reservoir of blood… and a hole in the meat of my meaty big toe. ICK.
As I sit here now, I wonder if for the cost of the medical bills, or the value of the feeling in Peter’s left thumb… could we have afforded a better place with a dishwasher? Maybe?

Oh well.

What’s a little nerve damage when you’ve got killer window light, masked by vertical blinds and the fear of a neighborhood peeping Tom?

Nuthin.

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~ by soartsyithurts on December 9, 2008.

One Response to “Uh…Gina…I think I hurt myself real bad.”

  1. I’ve already heard these stories and I’m STILL about to pee myself. Not even kidding (you know how I am).

    All I can say is: Publisher. Get thee to a Publisher.

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