Tag: embarassing moments

A scab! On my nipple!

By now you probably know that I have been extra-ly blessed in the boob department. I don’t want to be ungrateful but they can be a total nuisance from time to time. Therefore, it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to know that I’ve had another Boob Incident.

I was making up gift baskets for our best customers; I make all sorts of homemade goodies and put them in lovely baskets and deliver them just before Christmas. And it was during the execution of baking the goodies that I suffered a terrible injury to my right nipple.

All the baking went well. Everything indicated a successful completion of 3 gift baskets and I was already starting to congratulate myself. All that remained to do was decorate the Gingerbread. I had it in the bag. This was easy, easy stuff. First, I needed to clean up the mixer tools so I could get the icing made, and that’s where the whole affair came off the rails.

It had been going so well….

  • I had managed to keep the amount of cookie dough in my bra to a minimum.
  • I hadn’t had a major spill of any sort.
  • I hadn’t severed a digit.
  • I didn’t break any glass.
  • Nothing was burned.
  • I hadn’t forgotten any ingredients – everything tasted perfect.
  • Nobody ate it all, behind my back.
  • I only had to make an extra trip to the store once.

So I was confident! Once everything was clean and dry, I started assembling the KitchenAid again. The batter tool snicked easily into place, but then……

The bowl wouldn’t turn, to lock in place. Why do they have to make these things so tight? Geezus! I grabbed the machine with my left arm so it wouldn’t turn when I tried to turn the bowl but it’s awkward and wouldn’t cooperate. Every attempt failed; the base, heavy as it is, would turn with the bowl. So I started cursing. Surprisingly, it didn’t help.

Then I put the base on the table, which is lower, so I could get my arm around it better. Nope. Fail. Obviously, two arms aren’t enough. Why is it being such an asshole? It’s been very good until now. Why. Won’t. It. Lock?!  Fucker!   I just want to make some damned icing!

So I put it on the floor between my feet but then I couldn’t get a good grip on the bowl. So I sat on the floor, wrapped my legs around the base, except to get a good grip on the bowl handle I needed to sort of lean over the machine. One boob went to the left of the top of the machine and one boob went to the right.

Fail.

Okay, you sonofabitch!! I got up on my knees and wedged the base between my thighs. I anchored my left arm around the top of the machine and gripped the bowl with my right hand. My cheek was squished against the side of the base. With a colossal effort I tried to twist it into submission but then my right hand slipped and the bowl snapped against the base…….and my RIGHT NIPPLE GOT PINCHED INBETWEEN! Mother#$%@er!! Sonofabitch! Shitface asshole bastard pisshead!!!

I flipped my shirt up and gingerly extracted my right boob from the bra. It was bleeding! My nipple was bleeding!!

The Viking walked through the door and stopped short. The KitchenAid was still wedged between my knees, the bowl cockeyed now. I had straightened my torso so I could see my injury; my shirt was up and my boob was out. Bleeding. I looked up at him – surprised. And if I’m honest, I probably looked like I was sitting on the mixer with a boob out, and some people may have misconstrued the entire situation. The Viking knows me well enough though……

Him: What the fuck are you doing?!

Me: Look!  My nipple is bleeding!!  I gestured with the boob.

Him: How in the fuck did you manage that?!

Me: This stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag KitchenAid pinched my nipple off!

Him: Why do you have it on the floor?

Me: Because I couldn’t get the stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag bowl to lock into place on the counter or on the table so I was wrestling with it on the floor where I could get a better grip on it!

Him: Why didn’t you bring it to me?

Me: And admit I can’t get a mixing bowl to lock into place on its base? Are you crazy?! Besides, it’s been working just fine until now!

Him: Give it to me.

So he picks the bowl and the mixer base up and puts it on the counter. I knew what was coming. I pursed my lips and nasty smeared across my face. And just like I knew it would be, The Viking, with the tip of his stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag pinkie finger, flicked the bowl into the locked position then turned to look at me.

Me: You’re an asshole.

Him: Why? I was just trying to help.

Me: You could have tried helping before my nipple had to bleed.

Him: How could I possibly know that you were in a wrestling death match with the KitchenAid?

Me: I don’t know but you certainly know when to come in and catch me in the most compromising of positions.

Him: Do you need any help getting your boob back in the bra?

Me: This is not the time for you to be playing with my boob. Can’t you see it’s dying?

Him: I’ll be gentle.

Me: No! But you can help me off the floor.

By the next day there was a scab on my nipple. A scab! On my nipple! I considered writing KitchenAid a letter of complaint but then thought better of it. There just isn’t any way of explaining it without a loss of dignity.

The cookies turned out brilliantly. They were slightly soft with exactly the right amount of icing to make them completely delicious. My right nipple didn’t like them though and the KitchenAid is on the naughty list. Indefinitely.

A Ladder, a Tablet and My Daughter

If we were having coffee I would have to tell you that I’m UNHAPPY. And maybe a little depressed. Mostly UNHAPPY. And it’s all Mim’s fault.

Mim lives in a teeny-weeny town northeast of Edmonton and I like it not! I didn’t think it would bother me since it’s only a 4 hour drive – 3 hours the way The Viking drives – but I’m totally bothered. We talk on the phone but it’s not the same as in person because many of our conversations include body language, head waggles, weird faces and arm swinging as punctuation and emphasis. Now, we’re confined to GIFs and photos and we have to use our words way more than we did when she lived just down the street.

via GIPHY

Anyway…….she’s refusing to move back to Calgary for my convenience. When she was a kid she was determined to move to the other side of the planet and never, ever see me again. Ever! I said it was impossible to never see me again because I would hunt her down like a dog. I would buy the house next door and become the Village Eccentric who always wears pajama pants, rubber boots and T-Shirts that say “I’m Mim’s Mom!” under a picture of her adorable face.

I’m only explaining all of this because Mim sent me two pictures this morning on Facebook. Both showed a large red spot on her forehead.

Her: I ran into a ladder. A ladder! And the mark is still here after an hour!

Me: OUCH! Nielsy dropped his Surface on my head when we were cuddled up reading. He fell asleep and the tablet fell on my head. Corner first. And that tablet weighs 903 pounds!

Me: Did you run into the ladder because you couldn’t make a decision fast enough whether to go under it or around it?

Her: Haha!! Maaaaayybeeee. Dirty Viking! He should watch where he falls asleep.

Me: LOL! Last night he held the tablet AWAY from my head.

Me: And at least half of my accidents are caused by too many options for one action. I definitely would have run into the ladder, too. I would be like:

Oh look! There’s a ladder between me and the exit.

I’ll just go around.

Wait! It’s shorter if I go underneath.

Yes. I’m going underneath.

Wait! Isn’t that bad luck?

Do I even believe in those old wives’ tales?

No, I don’t, but it never hurts to be on the safe side.

Why are my legs still moving?

I should probably stop moving until I’ve reviewed all my options and my beliefs regarding them.

That would be The Viking’s advice.

Fuck that!  I’m not a child.  I’m perfectly capable of making a decision in the 2 seconds before I hit the ladder. 

I can just imagine what The Viking would say if I hit it.  He’d probably roll his eyes at me.

He’d probably also put ladders in the same category as Flame Throwers, Fire Extinguishers and Skill Saws – not to be trusted in my hands.

I’m getting awfully close.

Hurry! Make up your mind!

Around or under?! Superstition and shorter or longer and around?!

Too many choices!

Go right!  Go right! 

No!! Left!  Definitely left!

FUCK! I hit the ladder! It was the only obstacle in the entire room!

Her:

 steamroller

See what I mean? So many words when we could have just leaned a ladder against the house and did re-enactments. We’d have to change our underwear, of course, because we laugh at ourselves so hard that we get into ‘Pee-my-pants’ territory.

I miss her! And I can’t believe SHE WON’T MOVE BACK TO CALGARY LIKE A GOOD DAUGHTER SHOULD!!

Anyway, thanks for stopping by. I definitely needed someone to talk to today.

Until next weekend, then.

Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster for Coffee Share.

A One-Legged Girl and Banana Marshmellows

I caused a debacle today. Completely unintentionally, but it was a total fiasco nonetheless. It all started with needing coffee cream and a loaf of bread and rather than going all the way down to Safeway, I decided to just pop into The Bownesian. It is a little boutique-type store where local businesses can sell their products, organic produce and antibiotic-free meat are preferred, and it has an amazing deli section considering the miniscule size of the store.

I grabbed a basket when I went through the doors and went directly to the dairy section, swung through the bread section and headed to the check out. Except…..there, on the end cap of an aisle, was…..BANANA MARSHMELLOWS!! Oh. My. God! Banana Marshmellows! I got a craving for them about 4 years ago, couldn’t find them in all that time and now they were sitting right in front of me!

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Dum-Dum, Scrub & Weiner

I was reading another person’s blog* this morning about nicknames and it got me thinking about the nicknames my sisters and I had when we were young.

My nickname as a kid was Dum-Dum and I know exactly why that was my nickname. I was an alien, that’s why.  Or at a minimum, an alien to my family.  And aliens do things differently than other people.  We need good information because we always have questions, and without good information we tend to spin our wheels guessing.  Here’s an example of how I, an 8 year old alien, spun my wheels:

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This Happens All the Time

Even at the best of times, I am a car crash. A ballerina I’m not!

I once slipped and fell in the middle of my sister’s wedding reception. In front of everyone.  And my fugly brown dress flipped up to show off my underpants.

I fell off the raised stage during a band concert. In front of everyone.  And my clarinet broke so I had to Mime the rest of the concert.

A pair of panties fell out of the leg of my pants in the middle of a crowd of dudes.

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