I look forward to Friday. Friday, for me, means that I am getting a little break from my job. My job IS my family, and it is the hardest job I have ever had. I mean... I’ve hauled hay. This is harder. Friday means I am getting help for TWO days. I can pee whenever I want. I can eat whenever I want. I can go outside whenever I want. That’s right! Zinnia (my adorable baby) is not my boss on Saturday or Sunday.
Because of this, I hold high hopes for Fridays. They are usually great days that end in complete exhaustion, a hot bath, and a glorious night of sleep.
Not this Friday. This Friday I prepared for my bath, I got in, and when I had two inches of water, the hot water ran out. This usually infuriates me, and I will hunt down the culprit. I wasn’t going to let it bother me, though. I was just going to let my body parts take turns with the hot water. You know... right arm... left arm... back. Hahaha! This never works out, and no matter how much you flop like a beached whale, you are always cold. I gave up quickly. I was destined to be cold. I decided to get out and wear my winter pajamas since I was nearing hypothermia.
I was standing in my towel, reaching into the bottom drawer to retrieve my face cream. That’s when it happened. I felt the blade sink into my skin. I was shocked, the usual shock that someone feels when they are cut by something, but also shocked that something in the drawer actually cut me. My finger was rapidly bleeding. I could see that there was a thick chunk of skin that had been sliced, and that half of it was very much still attached. I placed my finger under running water, making sure the water pressure placed the chunk of skin back where it belonged. While letting the water run, I peered into the drawer to see what hellish thing was responsible for this.
That’s when I saw it. A mother effing razor. Several, in fact, but the one I zeroed in on? An old school razor that uses straight blades. Who the hell would leave a razor in this drawer?! What would make anyone think this was a good idea? A drawer is bad enough, but a bottom drawer? We have three kids, one of which, IS A BABY! And, I’m not gonna lie, the drawer is overcrowded and kind of gross. Who would WANT their razor in there?
I opened the bathroom door to scold my husband. He, of course, hurried my way. I, of course, thought he was concerned about my finger.
His first words and his second mistake: I don’t know how this could have happened.
Me: (Still letting the water lay my skin down, and remove the blood, while holding my towel.) Well. It happened.
The Husband: I just don’t see how.
Me: (Watching him with much disbelief, as he checked the razor out. I moved my hand wrong, and the water lifted the chunk of skin. Flames were growing in my brown eyes.) IT. HAPPENED. okay? IT. HAPPENED. Here is my blood. From my finger. That was cut by THAT razor. I wasn’t digging. I simply placed my hand in to grab THAT face cream, and your razor sliced me. I didn’t do this to myself, and blame it on your effing razor. Don’t leave razors in dangerous places. Especially, uncapped? Please get me something to clean this with. That razor is disgusting, and I’m probably going to die from Tetanus.
The Husband: It doesn’t have a cap, and didn’t you get a Tetanus shot last year?
At this point, I’m pretty sure I wanted to cut him with his own nasty, capless razor. I know, for a fact, that he is due for a Tetanus shot.
I left the bathroom to try and dress myself, as I was still freezing. The flames of hell in my eyes, hadn’t really warmed me much. I was dressing with one hand, while catching the blood in the palm of my other hand, trying not to get blood anywhere. Afterwards, I returned to the bathroom to place my hand back under the running water. Where the hell was my husband? I mean... I had time to, one-handily, get dressed.
He returned, and in his hand he held some Neosporin and some medical tape.
It was official. I was 100% convinced that my husband had eliminated his brains, in the toilet, with his morning dump.
WTF am I to do with either of these things? I mean, my finger is steadily bleeding. Am I to glob Neosporin on it? Wrap it with tape? Does medical tape even stick to a mixture of blood and Neosporin? You were gone that long, and this is what you came up with?
I left for the kitchen, where I keep the medicines, UP HIGH, where all dangerous things should be. I ranted the whole way. I ranted after I got there. I ranted while I climbed onto the counter, with one hand. I ranted while I found all of the things I needed. I was bleeding. I was hurting. I was mad. And I was ranting.
The husband: (When I paused my ranting for a moment.) I have to keep my razor in there.
Me: (Cleaning my wound with proper, non-burning supplies, and wrapping it to stop the bleeding.) Well, you can’t, so figure something else out.
The husband: I have to keep it somewhere in there! I have to shave every single night.
Me: (The devil himself is now encouraging the flames in my eyes to become brighter.) Well, unless you are going to tape it to the effing ceiling, you can’t. There is nowhere safe to keep it, and it is CLEARLY dangerous.
The husband: I have to put it somewhere in there. I need it.
Me: (Praying to everything holy for some patience.) Okay, fine, Thomas. The girls and I will risk sliced fingers so that you can have your razor in a convenient location. Because I did not know that walking from the bedroom, where we have another bathroom, that has a high shelf, into the other bathroom was such a strenuous task. (The flames were probably melting my face.) I’ll tell you what. If I find that razor in there again, I’m chucking it into the woods, and you won’t own an effing razor. And you are about as compassionate as an effing turd. Your wife is bleeding, and hurting, because of your ignorance, and all you seem to be worried about is how this was able to happen and how you NEED to keep your razor in that freaking drawer?
The Husband: (Hopefully, feeling awful, but probably just realizing he needs to put out this fire he started.) I’m so sorry that this happened.
Me: Speechless in my mind, but my mouth was surely resisting his apology. He had made it very clear that his only concern was the placement of his razor. Maybe take that sorry, and I don’t know... shove it up your ass?
God love him. He has many bright moments in life, but this scenario was certainly not one of them. Though, he did provide me with this funny story to tell. There is that! Right?
All is well now. My husband is still alive, and he has even managed to successfully walk to another room and back to get his razor. Imagine that!
As for me, my eyes have returned to brown, I got some new, pretty bandaids for my wound, and it seems to be healing rather nicely.
Peace. Love. And no more razors in the bottom drawer.
E