All right readers, it’s time for us to play a game called:
Okay, it isn’t really a game, per-say. It’s more of an I’m going to tell you how I’m an idiot and you express emotion in reaction to my oaf-ness (not a word, but it should be)–i.e.: laughing, crying, smiling, frowning, bawling, peeing-your-pants-explosive chuckling, etc.
When someone says, “Careful, that’s hot!” I just ignore them and carry on my merry way. Turns out, that doesn’t work.
Someone at work put a pan of bread in our brick oven. Once the bread was cooked, they pulled the steaming bread, and the scalding pan, out to let them cool so we could cut the loaves into pieces without experiencing Hell on our palms.
I went to go grab the scalding pan–which, to my knowledge, wasn’t scalding and wasn’t in the oven since the pans are never put in the oven in the first place–when my manager shouts, “Careful, that’s hot!”
I thought she meant the bread, so I grabbed the “hot-as-Hell,” “Satan with a pitchfork, poking you in the ass,” “Louisiana hot sauce,” “like holding fire” pan with my bare hand.
That being said, I’m doing everything with my non-dominant hand (left) and I can’t type for shit. In fact, the burns are so bad on my right hand that my mom, Ursula, wrote this post for me; she’s kind of like a guest blogger, even though I told her what to say and she doesn’t blog. We’ll give her the benefit of the doubt . . . she gave birth to me, after all.
That being said, I, Grace, will be on a hiatus until I can get feeling (other than stinging) in my fingertips.
I apologize for my stupidity. Learn from my mistakes.
The mother of a single daughter that wishes she had red hair and a green fish tail . . . no, not Ursula, her daughter. She plans to take over the sea, one German Mutti-ism at a time.