And it's only Monday

Last night I put the kids to bed and then wandered into the kitchen to forage for my own dinner. After perusing the lovely selections available to me, I decided on some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (It's the cheesiest!, after all). I put on a pot of water to boil, stacked the kids' plates in the sink, and headed out to the "play-room" (or what might be known as the living room, or den, or family room, or sun-room were this an average size house and not a teeny tiny crappy shack--but I digress) to pick up the myriad of small plastic objects that litter the floor at any given time.

A few minutes later, I returned to the kitchen and dumped the noodles in. On the burner behind the boiling water was a smaller pot, a pot I had cooked broccoli in for the kids much earlier (no, I don't cook myself broccoli, why do you ask?). This pot was dirty, and needed to be cleaned, and so I thought: I will move this here pot to the sink. This here pot has a steel handle, which was hanging over, or at least near, the flame of my boiling water. Thus, the handle was hot. Quite hot.

Did I notice this, last night, before I picked the pot up by its handle to move it to the sink? Why, no! However, my right hand palm did, immediately. See?


(Really, the picture doesn't do the damage justice. You can't see how the burn goes all the way up one finger (the important one, of course), and the blister isn't oozing in this photo. Plus, it doesn't even look inflamed--and it is, I swear!)

Then, after dropping the offending pot and its contents of mushy broccoli and water all over the floor (which is buckling, by the way--but that's fodder for another post. Is the anticipation killing you?), and while swearing profusely and rushing, in my barefeet, over to the sink to run my palm under cold water, I stepped on a tiny sliver of glass.

A tiny, tiny sliver--a shard, if you will, not even visible to the naked eye--left over from a lunchtime episode of I Can So Drink from a Big Girl Cup, Mommy with my darling daughter. Who knew something so small could send such startling pains to the already overloaded pain sensors in my brain?

I could feel the offending splinter sticking out of the ball of my foot, so I quickly took my weight off it, not wanting to push it in further. However, when I sat down to inspect, my right palm was still throbbing--oh, and dripping wet-- and my fingers couldn't actually pull off the fine motor skills necessary to dislodge it, seeing as how I just burnt the shit out of them. Plus, as I mentioned, the glass: it was small. Too small to see much of, and certainly too small to dig out with my left hand.

Remember, Lance is out of town (again). So it's me, the kiddos, and the gimpy right side of my body until Friday.


"How are you doing?," my mom asked, when she called today. "I've been thinking about you, home alone with those two sweet babies."

Well, I can't walk or use my right hand, but other than that, everything's swell.