As you may know, I’m a mustard lover, especially fancy French mustards sold in crocks that cost as much as 3 movie tickets (I’m not kidding). Well it turns out that when you smuggle this stuff home from an impromptu trip to Gay Paris, it has the original cork and wax seal unlike the plastic stoppers which live in the tops of crocks imported to the US.
So, while everything I open these days seems to require scissors, I grabbed a knife to pry open my mustard only to discover that wax doesn’t pry. It was brittle and yielded to the force of my desire, sending the serrated blade into my left hand. I nearly fainted, but being alone, I decided that could be fatal, certainly futile, so I just laid myself on the floor.
Then I called my mom.
“Did you wash it?” she queried.
“Am I your daughter?”
She decided I would be fine. And I believed her. But I still called my sister.
“Oh hi, I was just thinking of you. What’s up?”
“I cut myself.”
“Super glue. How bad is it?”
“It’s pretty bad. Seems like it should have stitches.”
“Hmmm. Super glue. That’s what they’ll do at the hospital.”
“Really????????? Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Look it up. Google it. Seriously.”
So I Googled and blogged and kept putting fresh bandages on my wounded hand slathered in antibacterial ointment. And guess what?
I now have a scar in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. Ohh La La!
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Photos by: Lisa Keating