Pinky & Not-Brain

One fine evening, it must have been a Monday since it was fire-meeting night, I was enjoying myself by cleaning the kitchen. It was during the summer, I believe. I am so old that I really can't remember, but it seems like the weather was nice. Pretty sure I had on shorts. Anywho...I opened the kitchen closet/pantry and felt this horrific, stabbing pain in my foot. Really thought a knife had cut into me. Turns out that my handy husband had stacked paint cans in the closet - I don't think he realizes that paint does not keep for ten years-and one of the paint cans decided that it had had enough of being stacked on top of the other one and jumped off, thus nearly cutting annihilating my pinky toe. Pinky does not like to be separated. That extremely sharp pain was Pinky's separation anxiety. I looked down and saw blood running like a river--ok, a small stream- on the kitchen floor, so I got a towel, examined the toe hanging by a piece of skin, and called down to the fire barn to tell Hubs to come take me to the ER. As a back up plan, I also called my parents because I knew the Fireman/First Responder Hubs does not like the sight of blood. Ironic, no? You know, as a matter of fact, our little daughter went and got a wet wash cloth for Pinky. Hubs arrives home about the same time as SSD (Stupid Step Dad --he made up his own title; yes, he has a strange sense of humor, but yeah, we probably did call him stupid --he's a man) arrives. I wrapped the towel around Pinky and clutched her. I didn't want to lose her. Then I would walk even more clumsily, wouldn't I? I would be even more off-balance. Physically, that is. Nothing can be done for the mental balance. Clutching the towel and toe, I sit in a chair by the door and ask Hubs to take me to the vehicle. Pinky is letting her displeasure be felt by throbbing unmercifully. I am in somewhat of a daze, okay, okay, a panic...I loathe stitches. Just the thought of my skin being sewn back together makes me all teary-eyed and crybabyish. Hubs proceeds to pace through the house. I wonder if there is something he needs, say like a billfold, car keys, etc. But wait, SSD is there to drive. Mom has come and gone with Little Girl. What in the name of all that is holy is he doing? I stand up at the door and ask if we could go because Pinky is unhappy and wants to be stitched. I am afraid she will get disgusted and tear herself the rest of the way off. WHAT IS HE WAITING FOR? I finally tell SSD, who is patiently, or impatiently, standing there waiting to be told what to do. I hop down the step to the porch, hop to the car, and lay there waiting. SSD comes to the truck after standing and looking at Hubs who is still pacing through the house. I tell SSD to leave Hubs and GET ME TO THE ER. SSD finally gets in and starts the vehicle but waits on Hubs. Hubs EVENTUALLY, and by eventually, I mean paces through the house another five minutes or so, shuts and locks the door only to jiggle the knob and push on the door for another five minutes. Did I mention Hubs' unfortunate OCD tendencies. We go through door knobs like a dose of salts through a widow woman (say that in an Okie accent --"widder wo-man"). When Hubs finally comes to the vehicle, he climbs in the front seat, turns all the vents on himself, and lays the seat back, thereby scrunching me and Pinky, and covers his face with a wet washcloth. In sympathy for Pinky? No, in sympathy for himself. He was trying not to puke, I am assuming. Hubs--absolutely worthless in a Pinky crisis. Pinky got 7 or 8 stitches right under the nail, cuz that is where the paint can decided to decapitate her, just at the base of the nail. Sliced right under it.
Well, that is Pinky's story. Next post--Hubs's Vasectomy. How fun is that?