Its official: I have to marry a doctor, and definitely the medical kind.
A few months ago, I was chopping an onion for my special Lent vegetable soup when I missed and took a chunk out of my middle finger. My father came home from work to find me with my left hand wrapped in paper towels, on the phone with my doctor's office asking how to determine whether or not I needed stitches. I didn't, but had a nasty wound for days. Not cute when working first class aisle.
Today, we had decided on tacos for dinner and I was to make the guacamole. Three avocados were $4.95 at the Super Wal-Mart; my mother was less than pleased. So about a half hour prior to dinner, I started chopping the ingredients. A tomato, a bit of onion, small piece of garlic, and then it was time to half the avocado. I cut into the first one, and when I went to remove the pit with the knife I somehow managed to take a chunk out of my ring finger on my left hand. This cut was far more painful than the first; my first instinct was to cover the wound, apply pressure, and hold it above my head. It was one of those flap kind of cuts, and being that I have no real medical knowledge, I didn't want to head to the hospital right away and embarrass myself. So I made my mother take me across the street to the neighbor's house, who's a nurse, to assess my situation. Due to the "flap" nature, they usually don't stitch that type of flesh wound. From these experiences I have deduced two things: I clearly should not be allowed to use a knife and most definitely need to marry a doctor to take care of me and the subsequent children of the union because we all know how well I handle medical emergencies.
And my hand still hurts.