That'll teach ya.

The definition of complete irritation with one's self is busting the glass in a brand new frame while attempting to make a wall hanging, but then forgetting about it and tripping over the glass in the dark while heading to bed. The clincher is being too wide awake to sleep and the throbbing in my severed toe. If these steri-strips don't hold I'm going to go from irritated to just plain ticked. The last place to be on a Saturday night is the ER.

The bunionectomy I had contemplated has been taken care of. No appointment necessary.

And my good friend thought her skeelz would go to waste by becoming a SAHM. Not on your life, babe! Since I know you're not working, and you're up all hours of the night being a milk maid to your wee one anyway, I don't feel bad about texting you in the middle of the night so you can re-attach my appendage (should it come to that).

Simmer down. I didn't actually sever anything, but if I'd been insistent they might have given me a stitch or two. Instead, I'm very impressed with myself and the bandaging job I did. I had to talk husband through helping me clean it. I shaved right next to the bone, and even though it looked really cool- I thought I might pass out. I can poke and prod all the live long day in someone else's wound, but the sight of my own blood makes me woozy.