Princess of the World

So I have face leprosy. I don’t know what’s causing it but it’s up there with lulu lemon pants and people who don’t bring wine to parties (way to go Canada, who the fuck are you people?*) for being pretty gosh darn annoying. First it was just my forehead, then it moved down to my neck and throat and now my PERFECT SHELL LIKE EARS ARE TRYING TO KILL ME WITH ITCHINESS. It’s been over a week and I feel like that’s quite long enough, thank you very much.

I assume I’m now allergic to my own dreadfully good taste, as what else could be setting me off other than my constantly delightful surroundings? Is it that casually placed coffee table book on the Golden Age of Handbuilt Bicycles? The carefully arranged art? Or the vintage cigar boxes with jewellery in them? Sigh. Who could say? Probably a doctor. The one I went to however (who had me in and out in under 30 seconds FOR REAL, and who may or may not have gone to an actual medical school) claimed it was probably due to the change in weather. That diagnosis is the medical equivalent of scratching your crotch and nodding when someone asks how to get to the bus station… um, what? And whilst I am sort of intrigued by having a weather beacon face, I think (and I’m basically a doctor having watched the Biggest Loser on TV a bunch of times) it’s probably due to terrible diet, lack of exercise, busyness and a hint of stress. Shall work on that… tomorrow.

How are you? Are you well? Me? Oh, a little leprosy, nothing to worry about.

*Now, here’s the thing guys, you’re supposed to bring a bottle of wine (or whatever you drink) every time you come, not once every two years. Also, if there are two of you drinking wine, you should probably bring two bottles, or one really nice one. Here are some tips from the nice folks at the globe and mail.

I am clumsy. This is because I am a girl. SCIENCE.

Along with my floppy ankles (aka medically validated clumsiness), I also just do stupid stuff. I have sliced into my finger so many times I almost have no fingerprints left (Woo! Life of crime!), and bang my head onto kitchen cupboards so regularly that one day THEY’RE going to break due a life of stress fractures from my skull. I also burn myself with fantastic regularity.

When I was about 6 I snuggled so close to the kerosene heater that I burned my ass on the metal cover, burned a big Z into my butt. My mum told everyone she knew and called me Zorro for months. I once got so excited at an episode of Australia’s Funniest Home Videos that I jumped up from my bean bag (!) with a large bowl of 2 minute noodles, filled to the brim with boiling water, in my lap. The boiling water really pooled up nicely in my lap as I fell back into the bean bag and nothing says funniest home videos like a crotch covered in red, fleshy blisters (people, never trust a cockatoo, they do funny shit that can cause DANGEROUS BURNS).

About a week ago, GB was busy doing that very annoying thing where he stands watching me cook (in frilly knickers and Louboutins, obviously) and flinches and winces and gasps as he watches me chopping vegetables, as if the mere act of being close to a knife is a sure bet I’m going to lose a digit. My feeling about this is I cook every night and of course sometimes you lose a finger here and there, who HASN’T secretly enjoyed their broccoli with a whisper of blood? (Also, if it’s going to cause him such terrible emotional angst I suggest that he just cooks us dinner instead, gender equality isn’t just about waxing ya know). I took on that particular tone of voice that partners take and told GB that it had been WEEKS since self inflicted injury. WEEKS. Sigh. Huff. Eyebrow.

So cut to last night when as a reward for doing a 60km mountain bike race (holy moly, that’s far!), I was doing a roast chicken (with garlic mashed potatoes, asparagus and green salad) for my brave sporty husband type. I went to pick up the pan for the asparagus (on a burner that wasn’t on) and the oven had heated up the handle so much my hand stuck to it a bit. I ran my hand under cold water and cried. I cried! Usually when I hurt myself I just run through my list of obscenities until I run out of ideas and go on my merry way, but this time I couldn’t take it out from under the cold water without bursting into tears again. I had to call GB over (I know, I know, I acknowledged weakness, next time we’re picking gladiator baseball teams where the stakes are life or death by cougar he won’t pick me to be on his team) to help finish the gravy. Also, I LET A BOY HELP WITH THE GRAVY AND THE WORLD DID NOT END. Lesson learned.

Anyway, I went to bed with a ziploc bag filled with ice and a wet cloth and at some point during the night it stopped hurting. There is only one blister that has raised (it’s the shape of Lake Ontario) but there are two massive white pockets under the skin around the blister. It’s gross, and a bit sore but I think I’m gonna be okay. I will accept gifts though. Just in case.

UPDATE* – I just went to get icecream and shouted to GB “I updated my blog! And I linked to yours! Because I’m a better wife who links to your blog even though you never link to m…” and at that point I hit myself in the face with the freezer door.