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Dude, Where’s My Fingers?5.May.2004It’s Cinco de Mayo! Yes, the fifth of May. It comes around once a year, because to do it twice a year would make all the other days jealous. Or not. It’s time to break out your unused high school Spanish and make all the waiters in Mexican restaurants glad they speak English!It’s also Remove Stitches From Son’s Hand Day, a lesser known but equally significant celebratory day. I’d prefer to celebrate the day with some nachos and salsa, but noooooooo. I have to play doctor. Salsa would just mess up my aim with the scissors. Why, might you ask, does your son have stitches? Because he’s male, thirteen and was not the recipient of a brain at birth, I might answer. Ok, the first two answers were correct. The last one is mere speculation on my part. However, I do have some evidence to support my assumption. You see he stuck his hand in a blender. Yes, a blender. Another thirteen-year-old boy, who shall remain nameless, turned the blender on. Before the Great Blender Accident, the boy was considered a ‘best friend’ and ‘all round skating dude’. He has since been declared persona non-grata around these parts, mostly because he insists that he turned the blender on by accidentally bumping it. Mm hmm. That’s an accident like Pearl Harbor was an accident. You can’t just bump a blender and have it go off on its crush ice and fingers setting. It doesn’t happen. Those buttons take force to make them move. I was standing at the kitchen sink while the boys were attempting to make ice slushies. My son says, “Hold on I need to get something.” Had I known that something was not something across the room, but in the bottom of the blender, I would have intervened. You see, having been born female, I was the lucky recipient of a highly technical tool that informs me of things like stove = hot, knife=sharp, politics =circus and blender = keep your freakin’ hands away unless you want to lose a digit. This is called common sense. This is apparently something a 13-year-old boy does not have a setting for and whose software does not recognize any commands from. I’m sure they come with the tool, they just don’t use it. I heard the blender turn on, and then a little girl screamed. At least that is what I thought at the time. It was either that or former presidential candidate-cum-yee-haw-yeller Dean was suddenly in my kitchen. Turns out that a thirteen-year-old boy who has just had his fingers pureed in a blender sounds exactly like a little girl shrieking. Who knew? I immediately grabbed his hand and shoved it under the cold water faucet in the kitchen sink. I’m trying to wash blood away and see if he still has all his fingers or if I need to go on a hunt for body parts. Thankfully I could tell that he was intact, albeit a tad shredded. He was writhing around, still screaming as I’m deciding that yep, an ER visit is in order. Later in the week, the friend calls and this is the conversation: (I’ve taken the liberty of translating it from Skater-Speak to something that you might be able to understand.
Friend: (I can't hear his responses so you won't be reading them here) My son: "Dude, did you see the blood? Was the ice all bloody?" Friend: Again, I have no clue. My son: "Dude, I seriously wanted to pick up the blender and smash it in your face when you did that" Duuuuuuude. This is the boy who, when told not to cut up grapefruit while I was running an errand, did just that. ER visit number 4, 571. I was hoping that by the time he’d reached the ripe, scarred old age of thirteen, that common-sense thing might have a chance. Now I’m pretty sure it’s not going to kick in any time soon. Although, I do see a new career opening up for him. I can see the movie now. “Dude, Where’s My Fingers?” |
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editor's note: due to stoopid people who can't behave in public (ie, spammers) we have had to turn off the comment feature on our older columns. We'll try waiting a while and then turning it back on to see if they get bored and go away. In the mean time, we will manually add any REAL comments if you email them to us. The link is below.
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