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This week: Edited by: Melissa is fashionably late!  
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There's nothing like laughing at yourself to lighten a situation. If you can't laugh at yourself, after all, what can you laugh at?
My name is Melissa is fashionably late! and I'm your newsletter editor for this week! |
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I recently had to spend two hours in the emergency room with an injured two-year-old. You see, my son had been outside playing with his Daddy, who was also trying to clean up our out-building in order to store some things for summer projects that need to be completed. My son, ever the curious one that he is, decided to find out what a hot tractor engine felt like first-hand, and ended up with second degree burns on the index, middle, and ring fingers of his right hand.
To be honest, it's surprising to me that we haven't had to make a trip to the ER previous to this particular visit, as he seems to have inherited his father's proneness to accidents. We often call him the walking bruise because it seems like everytime we turn around, he has a new one, even if he hasn't had any major trips and falls. It's just a two-year-old thing, really, but my husband has taken quite a many falls in his lifetime that have resulted in stitches, broken bones, and other various bruises and scars.
It did get me to thinking, though, and I'm not exactly graceful myself. At the age of five, I chipped my newly grown-in adult front tooth while swimming at a friend's house. At the age of seven, I took my first fall into a door jam, resulting in seven stitches in my forehead. In between those times, I accumulated my own set of scars on my head, shoulders, knees, and toes.
It gets better as life goes on for me, though. My first Christmas back in Michigan, I almost killed myself trying to make fudge. The first batch didn't set right, so I moved on to a second batch. With the second batch, I prepared everything perfectly, had it nice and thickened when I whipped it after cooking it, and picked it up to move it across the room to pour the mixture into a pan to harden. Something happened to my hand (I swear it wasn't a condition called butterfingers) and I dropped the pot.
That, in and of itself, would have been bad enough, but like I said, I'm not exactly graceful. In attempt to keep the pot from falling to the floor, I stepped forward to grab it as it fell. The "unbreakable" glass pan bounced off the top of my foot, bruising it, then shattered in front of me on the kitchen floor.
Now, this should have been bad enough. My perfect batch of fudge was ruined. My foot had a new bruise. To make matters worse, the kitchen had carpeting that we had just paid to have cleaned by professionals, and a nice glob of fudge slowly seeped into its fibers.
My husband, then just my boyfriend, ran into the room at the sound of the crash to find me in tears, devastated that my second batch of fudge was ruined. He sat me down in a chair and set about cleaning up the mess. After he finished cleaning, I swore to never make another batch of fudge again.
Ever the supportive man he is, my husband asked me to make another batch of fudge because he really had developed a taste for one by that point. I set about to making my third batch with hesitation. When it came time to move the pot from the stove to the counter to whip the chocolate, I asked him to move it for me. I started hooking up the beaters for the hand mixer, and had forgotten I'd left it plugged in. My hand slipped over the on switch and my fingers became entangled in the beater arms.
This required Jason to run to my aid again. He unplugged the mixer and helped me untangle my fingers. Once I was free, I ran as fast and as far away from the fudge as I could. In the process, I missed seeing the ottoman that had suddenly decided to move in my way, and I fell backwards over it. (Just picture the beginning credits of the Dick Van Dyke Show.)
By then, I had decided that I was never going to make another batch of fudge, so help me God. It was my "sign" that Christmas candy and I were not destined to be comrades in arms against the holiday season. After that batch of fudge was eventually finished (I just told Jason how to finish it from the safety of the couch), I have never even planned to make another batch.
So, yeah. I can't completely blame my husband for my son's undeveloped grace. It seems that he has fate working against him on both sides of the fence.  |
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Comedy: July 25, 2007 Issue [#1847]
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