The Story about the Hot Dog, Wedding Rings, Blood Blister and the Letter “J”

It started two nights ago.

As I was walking upstairs to go to bed,

I started to drop one of the sandals I was carrying.

In my not-so-smooth attempt to keep hold of my sandal,

I rammed my ring finger into the riser part of the stair so hard that I was sure it was broken.

The stair first.

Then my finger.

The whole incident scared the dog into McDaniel’s room.

The loud crack of wood and bone 

and then my wounded animal howl.

My ring finger,

the one that sports my WEDDING RINGS, 

felt all hot and heart-beatish.

Somehow I had the presence of mind to remove my rings,

which is not usually how I do things.

My stories usually start with,

“I wish I had thought to…”

Or

“It didn’t occur to me until later that…”

So, I’d like a little credit here

and soft applause.

Especially since clapping makes me feel 
a little nauseous with pain right now.

When I woke up yesterday,

my finger was the size of a hot dog,

if a hot dog had blueberry filling,

and a knuckle.

For some unknown reason I tried to put my rings back on.

The hot dog wouldn’t have it.

Mainly because of the searing pain.

Followed quickly by the hugeness.

So I iced down during breakfast and thought about how stupid I would feel having to tell the doctor at an urgent care how I jammed my finger into a stairway.

And I once had to tell a doctor (loudly) that I jammed 

 a Q-tip into my ear so hard that I heard angels singing.

I decided to ignore the pain and go about my day like I didn’t have a hot dog for a ring finger.

The girls and I went to Lowe’s to get some project supplies

because spray painting two chairs sounded like a great way 

to ruin the only good hand I had left to work with.

Of course we ran into everyone we knew,

me with no wedding rings on and all.

One was Carisa’s husband.

I’m surprised I didn’t get a call.

Or a banana bread fresh from the oven.
She is Southern after all, and programmed
to provide food in a crises.

(Her banana bread is almost worth a crises).

I thought on the drive home what a good thing it was that this life of mine wasn't an Andy Griffith episode because boy, Aunt B and her nosey friend would have had the “Karmen wasn’t wearing her wedding rings” information ALL over town by the end of the day.

Incidentally, driving is VERY difficult when you 

have an unbendable hot dog for a finger.

Mainly in the crucial steering department.

I casually mentioned all the people I ran into at Lowe's to some neighbors at a porch gathering yesterday afternoon.

“Of course no one would notice I wasn’t wearing my rings.”

When one of my neighbors said,

“Oh, I would have!”

And, I have to admit,

I would’ve too.

I’m an observer.
It comes already loaded
with the story telling thing.

But before the neighborhood gathering,

and after the finger-hot dog incident, 

I managed to shut part of my arm in the double doors of our 

linen closet thus pinching a nice blood blister with a rapid 

heart beat about two inches from my elbow.

The dog was unphased by my scream at that point.

A few minutes later as I was walking to the garage at a hurried pace,

I pushed open the fence gate with some force and speed not realizing the gate was locked 

and my body didn’t get the memo in time 

so I ended up with a nice deep letter “J” scrape on my arm.

Cue the heart beat.

Let’s recap:

I jammed my ring finger into a black and blue hot dog,

potentially started rumors about the state of my marriage,

pinched the ever lovin’ life out of my arm

and managed to gouge the letter “J” into the flesh of my other arm.

All in a 24-hour period.

As I retold the horrors of my 24 hours (show and tell style) to my neighbors,

one who happens to be a nurse said three of the sweetest words to me,

“It’s not broken.”

But I learned it could be a couple of weeks before those 

wedding rings manage to make their way back onto the hot dog.

So I need to come up with a good story when I notice someone noticing I’m not wearing my wedding rings.

Any ideas??