The other day I was doing some kind of hard manual labor and inflicted this blood blister upon myself. Lame.
Since then every time I’ve changed a poopy diaper I’ve caught sight of that dark speck and momentarily freaked out that I mis-wiped and have poo on my hand. Seriously. It happens every time.
When I was in forth grade, as a getting to know you exercise during the first week of school we traced our bodies on sheets of butcher paper and then colored ourselves (I know it was forth grade because I remember the outfit I was wearing) There was a boy named Michael in my group. He had a blood blister on one of his fingers and made a point of representing it on his paper twin. He was very proud of his blood blister and talked of it quite frequently.
Now, after every mini “there’s poo on my hand” panic attack I see Michael’s face in my mind. In these visions he’s smiling and holding out his blistered paw for all to admire.
“But Eva,” I know you’re asking, “What was the hard manual labor that inflicted this grievous poop splatter mimicking injury?” ( how’s that for a segway?)
I’ll tell you: We bought a new house, and when I say “new” what I mean is old. Old, and smelly and caked in dog hair/pee. I’m going to tell you something now and I want you to know that this is no exaggeration. After prizing the baseboards from the walls in the living room area the visual impression left was that rather than simply removing those boards I’d actually replaced them. Replaced them with boards made of fur.
Think about that.
Now, If you’ll excuse me, there’s a shop vac I need to purchase.