The Stars and the Cookie Jar

There were pools of blood. I do not lie.


We awoke on this leisurely federal holiday and decided to go into the kitchen to make quesadillas, as you do. Part of making quesadillas is roasting the vegetables in a Pyrex baking dish for twenty minutes, so we got out the Pyrex baking dish. (Very nice. Cobalt blue. Matching pie plate.)

Something happened (I missed it) and it fell off the counter and hit the floor in a thousand pieces and I, shocked by the noise, put my foot down and got a decent-sized chunk of cobalt blue Pyrex embedded in my instep. Either that, or the chunk of Pyrex flew up to meet my foot. There were immediately stunning pools and gouts and spurts of blood all over the lino and the carpet. There was much futile paper-towelling. There was this whole thing with a tweezers chasing around bits of Pyrex that had made their way into my other foot.

Our housemate got all the blood out of the carpet with hydrogen peroxide. Who knew?

So I spent all day with my foot up on a yoga ball, or up on a tuffet, or up on my other leg. Showering was a joy, especially the part where the body wash got into my foot. (I wised up and used the 83% aloe, not the Lemonade! body wash.) It doesn't really hurt, except when I walk on it, or my wife puts Neosporin on it, or when my wife puts Band Aid Brand Hurt-Free Antiseptic Wash on it. As I was telling sovay, it's all a tissue of lies. That stuff is Actively Burninating Like Fire.

I know it could be worse and I could be in Darfur, but right now I'm dreading having to put a shoe on tomorrow and go to work. Even with my wife's kind offer to deliver me to the gates of work, it's just going to be wretched and gross and inconvenient. And the thing will insist on opening and bleeding whenever I'm stupid enough to put my whole foot down.