I’ve been quiet here because life’s been busy. Not busy enough to provide me with anything new to write about, though. Until last night…
Yesterday, I decided that I wanted pizza for dinner. To those who know me, you might be thinking to yourselves, “What night do you NOT want pizza?” To those who don’t know me, I’ll just say that the delivery drivers at Papa John’s all know me, and I know them, and they get together every Christmas and buy me a poinsettia. No, I’m not making this up. Anyways, pizza is, more or less, a “default meal” for me. Since I don’t cook, it’s just easier to have them bring me food than drive somewhere and get it. The point of this paragraph is that I WANTED pizza.
Because of this craving, and because of Papa John’s being a staple food in my house, I decided to buy an oven pizza to mix up the taste a bit. On the way home from work, I stopped by the grocery store and walked around in the deli section. Finding no pre-made pizzas there, I moved on to the frozen foods aisle and settled on a Red Baron Four-Cheese pizza. (They were on sale.) Having hunted/gathered, I took my kill home for preparation.
Of course, there is no food-preparer at Casa de Stuck, so I had to don the apron and do it myself. (I don’t really have an apron.) Painstakingly, I opened the cardboard box and removed the protective scale (plastic wrap) from my prize. I placed my kill directly on the oven rack, and turned the knob to 400. (Pre-heating is for sissies.) I checked the clock, and spent the next 17 minutes changing out of my work clothes and washing my hands. (Yes, I probably should have washed my hands BEFORE I handled the pizza, but I’m sure any germs will bake off at 400 degrees.) I could smell the sweet aroma of my soon-to-be dinner wafting through the house.
I returned to the kitchen and pulled out a kitchen knife. It’s not big enough for me to call it a butcher knife, but it’s not a knife that you’d put in your silverware drawer, either. It’s a knife that is big enough to have it’s own slot in the big block of wood that holds the seven big knives in my kitchen. It’s big enough to kill somebody if they were to break into my house. I grabbed the knife because I do not own one of those fancy roller-cutters. The knife is important to the story, I promise.
Anyway, I open the over door, and see that the cheese on the edge of the pizza has burnt all the way around, despite my refusal to pre-heat. Ah well, it’s just the edges. I proceeded to stick my knife up through the oven rack, to pull it out. I had burned my hand on the top of the oven once doing this, so I came from the bottom this time. (Why does everyone ask me why I didn’t use an oven mitt at this point in the story?) The oven rack was being stubborn, having been baked into a comfortable spot I suppose. So I had to lower the knife a bit to get a better angle.
And that’s how I pressed the bottom side of my hand against the inside of the oven door. I wish I cold say this was the end of the story, but it’s not. Feeling an unpleasant sensation on my hand, and smelling the sickly-sweet smell of my charring flesh, I jerked my hand away. The hand that was holding the knife. (I told you the knife was important, didn’t I?)
I don’t know how I managed to wiggle the knife out of the oven rack and still bring it to bear in that split-second of saving my hand from a serious burn, and I’ve replayed that split-second in my mind several times trying to figure it out. The only logical conclusion is that I am part ninja. Being part ninja isn’t important, though. The important part is that I was able to wiggle that knife fast enough, while jerking my hand away from the oven door, the oven door that I am hunched over, so that it (the knife) was able to stab me in the shoulder.
Yes. You read correctly. I stabbed myself in the shoulder. With a knife big enough to kill someone.
Having been raised on the streets on West Side Irmo, I knew it wasn’t a fatal stab. To be perfectly honest, the knife only went about a half-inch in. It must’ve been my part-ninja reflexes that kicked in and prevented me from severing my left arm entirely. It was, however, deep enough for me to stand bolt-upright and drop the knife in surprise.
Right onto my big toe. Point-first.
Again, I wonder just how the knife manage to spin just enough to drop point-first into my toe from a height of five feet. I’m almost positive that it’s physically impossible, and I plan on calling MythBusters to have them run some tests. However, the Impossible is nothing when compared to the power of a Ninja, even a part-Ninja, it seems.
Being a manly man, my plan, at this point, was to rinse the knife off, cut my pizza, and bleed while I ate it. But my shoulder was bleeding rather profusely. I don’t take the sight of blood very well, so I wavered in and out of tunnel vision a few times while trying to staunch the flow. Eventually, I decided it was time to go to Urgent Care. Living alone, it made perfect sense that I would drive myself. While fighting off the curtain of unconsciousness. (I may be part-ninja, but I think I’m part-idiot, too.) I didn’t pass out on the drive, though.
The rest of the story is your typical visit to Urgent Care. A waiting room full of sick people who think that their cough is more important than your BLEEDING CHEST WOUND. A doctor who is not even trying to hide his laughter as he gives you stitches and you tell him how you lost a knife fight with yourself. A medical assistant who laughs and tells you that she’s going to tell everyone in the company about what a moron you are. (Why did I choose to go to an Urgent Care that is part of the company I work for? Oh yeah, it’s free.)
Six stitches and a washcloth wrapped around my hand later, I’m all better.
This story is why, when my life is turned into a movie, the role of myself will be cast as Steve Martin or Jim Carrey instead of John Cusack or Brad Bitt.
Not to be beaten by a kitchen, I have resolved to cook at least once a week. I’ll start small, with simple recipes like spaghetti, and work my way up to something harder… like spaghetti with SAUCE.