How I Almost Lost A Finger, or You Want Me to What? On the What What?

As I sit and smell the cheesy, garlic-y, deliciousness of whatever it is that the man behind me is annoyingly eating while waiting for the plane, I am finally feeling ready to tell the story of what happened to me on Friday.

(Deep breath inserted….here) I nearly lost a finger.


The middle one on my right hand. My absolute favorite finger. Of all time.

Here’s how: I was preparing my classroom for summer checkout. Which means stacking desks (students did it), stacking chairs (students did it), cleaning up last minute things (we all did it) and the like.

At two o’clock. As I am ready to get the custodian to check me out, he enters my room. With the co-custodian.

Oh, people. Have you cried in front of co-workers that you don’t even barely know?

As I bounce over to him and announce that he must have psychic abilities and I was just about to get him, he looks at my windows and tells me ALL tape must be removed (which I didn’t put up, the girl that had my room before did) and all staples must be removed from the bulletin board AND all the desks that were stacked up where I’ve stacked them for the last three years? Those had to be moved.

Tears pooled in my eyes. I kid you not. And then he hands me (wait for it, wait for it)…a razor. Just the razor. No gloves, no handle, no nothing. Just a tiny teeny weenie blade.

I should interrupt myself to explain to you that my experience with razors is limited to legs and pits. Sometimes when I’m tired I don’t even trust myself with the razor to shave.

And here I was. Alone with a razor blade. After I swore A LOT, I began to scrape away the old, yellowed tape. Scrape, scrape, and then I hit bone. Or nail. Or something. And then I yelled (not muttered) SON OF A BITCH, which got the religious male teacher from next door racing over.

Apparently he heard some yelling.

He forgave the swearing and asked if I was okay. I will tell you something. This man next door? He is big. And I feel safe because he comes to my fake rescue all the time. I am a loud teacher.

So anyway, I wave my middle finger at him and tell him that no, I'm not okay, I've been stabbed - by myself. Blood dripping down my finger and hand.

It went downhill after that. I filled out an at-work incident report, just in case I got an infection and my finger fell off. I wanted to be covered, you know? The sad thing was, I didn't get the response I wanted. It was drama and I wanted someone to go, "Awe, are you okay?" Because really? I didn't want to scrape all that stuff anyway. Or do my bulletin boards. Or move my chairs (again). So I did it and was almost de-fingered in the process. And while people showed concern, it wasn't the response I was looking for, you know?

The custodian comes back to check out my room so I can leave. Tape still on the windows. He asks me for the razor and I tell him that I had to throw it out as it was covered with my blood and part of my finger. He was all, "Oh, okay" and just gets out another one. No biggie.

So. sad. all. day.

I get home and I show Jeremiah. First response? "Awe, man! You hurt your middle finger? That's your favorite!" and a lot of how dare they make me do those things. Don't I have the best boyfriend ever?


Ou est la Green Day musique?

Emily says: Can you get me your Green Day cd so I can let my dad hear it?

Boyfriend: Sure. Where is it?

E: In my car.

B: In the correct case?
note: It drives Jeremiah MAD when I don't put cds in their correct cases. Makes him super nervous. One time he reorganized ALL my music in alphabetical order. It lasted all pretty-like for about a week.

E: No.

B: sighs and heads to the garage. Returns minutes later, all shaky and looking pained.

E: Hey! You found it!
Notice that I'm completely happy and don't see anything wrong. CD has been found. All is good.


E: Was it in a case, protected?

B:Yes. But not the right case. The Green Day case was on the floor in the back.

E: Yeah, but I bet I closed it to keep the dust out, right?
So proud of myself for closing the case.

B: You shouldn't even take your music anywhere. Let me make copies of everything and hide the originals so that they don't get ruined.

I don't think boyfriend will let me borrow his cds anymore. Ever. Or even my cds. I've lost cd privileges. So sad.

On another completely separate random note: I got a pedicure today and it is simply DIVINE. If zebra stripes are wrong, I don't want to be right.


Viva Las Pukas, or Riding the Escalavator

WARNING: There is some talk of barfing. If that is too much information for you, stop reading now.

So remember I was going to Vegas?


I actually blogged in the airport but you'll have to wait for that one. This one is coming first. Because I'm thirty now and I feel like doing things however the heck I want.

Oh, wait. I've always done that.

So we stayed at the Flamingo. If you are in college, stay at the Flamingo. If you like having a non-smoking room that smells like smoke, stay at the Flamingo. If you like having a room with a fortune from a fortune cookie (that isn't yours) remain on the floor THE ENTIRE TIME you're there, stay at the Flamingo. If you like having tanning oil scent pumped into the air they pump into the casino and lobby, stay at the Flamingo.

If you do not like these things, stay elsewhere.

I've included some pictures for you and I promise you story details, but pictures first, okay?
I woke up one morning and realized that I had indeed started growing Satanic horns in the night. I could not get them to go away. This should have instantly alerted me that this trip would be unlike any other trip to Vegas. Bad girl, go back to Phoenix.
Views from my room.

So the conference was great and I learned lots of stuff. It was like sitting through a time share sales pitch. I felt as though everything I did was wrong and I immediately needed to change it. All of it.

The excitement came when we wandered into a karaoke lounge on Monday night. So fun. No drinking. But as a completely mean girl, I love to sit and heckle the people on stage. Not loudly. I'm not that mean. Sheesh.

The problems came when we went back to the lounge the next night.

Oh, people.

The drinks were a'pourin' and I was having a great time. Here's a snippet of a phone call to Jeremiah, with some paraphrasing.

E: Whatchin' doin'?

J:Sleeping. It's almost one.

E:Tell me a little about that.

J:Are you drunk?

E: laughs hysterically

J:So, yes?

E: I did the running man dance. And the grocery shopper. And the dice. And the sprinkler. And then I came back to my hotel and I rode the escalavator.


E:Now I think I'm going to throw up.

That's about it. Vegas is one mean city, for sure. I didn't actually throw up until about five, but at that point I called boyfriend back and was still laughing hysterically about an ice cube on the floor that wouldn't melt because my room was so cold. I thought I was funny. He thought I needed some food to absorb some of the remaining alcohol. The puking took care of that.

I flew home with the barf bag on my lap the entire flight and I was actually green.

Would you like to ride the escalavator with me?


Neilson, Shmilson

Neilson ratings came a'callin'.

That in itself is funny, because Jeremiah and I don't watch T.V., so I don't know how helpful I am in rating shows. They asked for my faves and I put a whole bunch of shows that aren't even on anymore. Friends anyone?

But the piece de resistance came when I filled out my race. Because people? I make myself laugh. Jeremiah might not think I'm funny, you might not think I'm funny. But I just get a kick out of me.

P.S. For other languages spoke in the home I put French. And pig latin.
P.P.S. Just kidding about the pig latin.


The Polish are Coming!

So I collapsed into the couch in a heap of punchy, exhausted giggles when I checked my visitor counter yesterday night and discovered...wait for it...

I have had a visitor from POLAND. A call from the mother ship, if you will.

Jeremiah and I think it has to do with all the Polish references and excitement over our new Polish punk rock group, Rock Satan's Baby (learn about the band name here). Like I said, We will rock. You will love us. Polish peeps included.

In addition, I have now had 2 visits from my Russian friend. Still a PG-13 rating here. Nothing saucy. But you are welcome to come and visit the blog anytime. And lurk. Because that's what people do. They lurk on my blog. So lurk away.

P.S. I have the funniest story about Jeremiah. I just need to convince him that it IS funny. Or maybe he doesn't want you to laugh. If I get permission, be prepared for one funny story. Or several funny stories. Sometimes I just look at him and think, "Oh, boyfriend."