Friday, July 18, 2014

This might sting a little

All I had to do was pull a few weeds.

And now I think I have the Ebola Virus.

Yeah, I know. It’s not something transmitted by plants.

But I don’t care.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.


My assignment was a simple one - pull a few weeds around plants in the yard. I didn’t even have to get all of them. Just the little buggers that had grown too closely to the pretty flowers and bushes.

My husband, armed with some new fancy, schmancy organic weed killer, would then kill all the rest of the dastardly weeds in an ala Dirty Harry, Make My Day kinda way.

No big deal, right?


Unless...well, unless someone...I’m not saying who...put her hand somewhere she shouldn’t have and had an allergic reaction to something she never should have put her hand into in the first place.

Got it?

And, no, I wasn’t wearing gloves. It was just a few weeds, right? Only wusses wear gloves to pull a few weeds.


I looked down at the side of my right index finger where a blister the size of a Buick had busted and torn away, leaving a large flap of skin hanging in the wind.

Some type of bodily essence (I’m not sure what exactly) oozed from the wound. And since I hadn’t been wearing the aforementioned gloves when the darn blister made its appearance and broke, there was a ton of dirt and grime and other nastiness coating the entire thing.

Hands down, one of the grossest things I’d ever seen.

And I’ve given birth, people. Seen a new baby, covered in all the goop and slime of childbirth, recently expelled from my uterus. Moving on....

At least only one of the blisters had ruptured. The rest caused by the allergic reaction were currently behaving themselves. So that was good.

My husband wasn’t home, and the 9-year-old pansy insisted, “Owies creep me out.” Not so good.

So it was up to me to serve as my own EMT. Sure, I’m not gonna be that guy who cut off his arm to free himself when he got stuck while rock climbing, but I can handle a blister.


It’s a bad sign when there are three large bottles of hydrogen peroxide in the house, and all of them expired before 2008.

I was up the proverbial creek at this point, but I needed to clean the darn thing before it got any worse.

I turned on the faucet and stuck the raw wound under the running water. Bad idea, I know, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

And apparently a girl’s gotta throw up.

The streaking hot pain shot through my hand, up my arm then into my stomach where I just about tossed my breakfast all over the bathroom floor.

Screw this. There’s no need to live in the Dark Ages, people.

A quick call to my mom-in-law - since my husband was still AWOL - meant a new bottle of hydrogen peroxide was on its way.


In all fairness, a little hydrogen peroxide isn’t a big deal.

Shortly after college I went rollerblading for the first - and only - time. After a few short blocks on level streets, I’d suddenly decided I was a kickass rollerblader and could do hills too.

...For the record, I was not a kickass rollerblader.

I soon limped back home with a new respect for gravity and a swathe of road rash down my thigh.

Fresh out of college with no medical insurance meant I had to take care of it myself, and the only thing I had to clean it with was a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

So, yeah, I poured half of it onto my cheese grater-looking thigh.

I’ll be honest with you.

It stung. More than just a little bit. I cursed a few times then passed out in the bathtub where my roommates found me two hours later.

But I survived. And I will survive this blister too.

However, don’t think for a New York lovin’ minute I’m ever gonna weed (or rollerblade) again.

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