To reiterate the email to the Cajun, look what I just did to my nose:



It doesn't look too bad, but it's about 1/8" deep. It really hurt when it happened, but then I immediately got the frozen peas. (Hey, those were actually left over from the Cajun's pot pies I made in FiestaWare. I think we decided they should have been cooked longer, at a lower temperature, so the potatoes had more time to soften appropriately. But I digress.)

I was taking down the attic stairs, you know, the spring-loaded ones that close flush with the ceiling, and fold out when you need them? Well these decided to unfold in their own space and time as I pulled them down. Whack! Right on the bridge of my nose.

I might want a stitch, because although the wound is straight and clean, it gaps if I move my face around. And we all know I do that as my sworn avocation, so . . . I'm waiting for the nurse to call back. Oh there she is. I get to go to the Health Center at 5:15. Oh joy. And it's the new doctor, too, eager to get his hands into some skillwork. Joy. Why couldn't it be one of the people I know? Another opportunity to trust. Thanks, Universe, because getting stairs in the face wasn't enough of a lesson for one day.

I feel like a dork! One more battle scar to join the pipe burn on my bicep, the right-thigh falling-out-of-a-hammock scar from Bumping Lake, the pot-lid burn on my left wrist, the kitten bite on my right thumb, and the tooth-through-the lip scar from when I asked the childhood question, "can a grocery-store balloon punching bag be rested on like a pillow on top of gravel?"

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All better now. Dr. Brinkley is a nice woman, not even a man, and very jovial. I got DermaBond (skin glue), and now it's going to heal quite nicely, thank you.