It’s getting all kinds of O. Henry up in here. (Do people outside of Greensboro, North Carolina know anything about O. Henry or his stories? I swear we learned to recite “The Gift of the Magi” in kindergarten. I guess they wanted to prove we could produce things other than cotton and tobacco back home. Mmm, home. I bet they don’t have this much snow. I might need a field trip. Say, it’s kind of early in a post to have already spent this much time in parenthesis, doncha think? But I don’t want to go. It’s warm in here. Oh, fine.)
My hands look like I tried to cuddle with Pin Head. No, I guess that’s not quite right because all the sharp points are in his head instead of tearing through the flesh on my fingers. So it would be more correct to say my hands look like I tried to cuddle with Pin Head if both sides of all the metal barbs in his head had been sharpened to jagged pricks. Heh. Pricks.
You know what you should do when your hands and fingers are nothing but a medley of cuts and scabs? Eat buffalo wings. Because nothing feels better than hot sauce eeking into your open wounds. Then, while your hands are still greasy and covered in cayenne pepper, rub your eyes. It’s like the most fun ever.
Right I still haven’t really covered why my hands look like the meat they serve at Taco Bell, have I? Well if you remember, this is where Isabella has been sleeping.
But now? After approximately 10 minutes of measuring, 947 hours fighting with my sewing machine, 3 hours applying Betadine and band-aids, 5 hours of ripping out bad seams, 2 hours re-measuring, 422 hours back on that bitch of a sewing machine, 3 blown electrical fuses, 15 minutes at CVS purchasing more first aid supplies, 1 hour begging Rocco to sew on the buttons, and approximately 17 bottles of wine, she’s sleeping here.
Yes. I’m a nerd – a profusely bleeding, crazed nerd.
I was cutting the batting to stick in between the layers of fabric and Rocco was all, “You better double that up. Isabella has a lot of ass.”
Fucker. Isabella is sensitive. In fact, she’s so sensitive that I made a little pillow for her neck which I sewed into the lining.
So here’s where it get all O. Henry. Isabella, grateful for her new home is practically begging to be played. But her big, mean, steal strings just rip these scabs right off. My fingers hurt too much to play. Ain’t that a bitch.
You know what else is a bitch? Listening to Herbert complain about his cold, un-padded case. But that little diva is going to have to suck it up until I buy some more neosporin.
Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart. Now Martha? Got any tips for pulling broken needles out of my fingers?