First, the story of my thumb:

So on Saturday as I was chopping bell pepper for a frittata (green bell pepper, onion, soyrizo, and cheddar; nomnomnom) I accidentally got myself with a kitchen knife.

Of course it was for a little dinner party, and of course both guests arrived just as we left for the ER (I basically pointed to the wine and said, “hang out as long as you want, we’ll be back eventually, lock the door when you leave”), and of course I got junkie-shamed in the ER for asking for decent drugs since I was hovering between an 8 and 10 on the pain scale for the two hours we were there. (Don’t even ask about the Surgicel application. Stuff of nightmares, my friend.)

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Anyway, we get back and my lovely friends have finished dinner for us just as we walk in the door and it’s great except I can’t drink because the ER gave me Tylenol. Pain subsides over the next 48 hours and I amuse myself by Instagramming my increasingly grimy bandages.

Fast forward to today, when I see my doctor. She straight up winces when all the bandages are off, gets pissed at the ER doctor who put me on too much Tylenol (which apparently “does nothing but mask the pain, if it even does that”, which it didn’t), and then says I might have to see a hand surgeon. Oh, and by the way, it’s going to take a full month to heal.

I had quite a strong emotional reaction to that, which I did not expect. As you all know by now, I spend most of my free time cooking and knitting. And now I can’t do either for a month, nor can I get my thumb wet, nor can I put any pressure on it at all, which means I can’t do most household chores. Naturally, I’m bummed.

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You might also remember that I recently quit my job. As of this morning, I had put in about a dozen job applications, wrote up a pitch for an online magazine that I have heard all of nothing from after a week of quick responses, and gotten one job interview via a friend. But just one. And I got a rejection on a screenplay proposal. And I had to turn down two independent knitting commissions in the space of an hour because of ol’ thumby here. So I was feeling especially blue. I started wondering if I was going to be dependent on Mr. PKB for everything, if I’d ever get real work again (or if I’d have to go back to corporate retail, which nearly killed me), and if I was worth anything an artist. I was sitting in the Michaels parking lot crying (I went for cross stitch supplies, since I can still do that) and then I went and took myself out for lunch and almost cried there, and then I went home and put a load of laundry in and almost cried over that.

But then...

I did stuff. I applied for three jobs I don’t want through Indeed, and then I got a followup on a good job I do want, and then I realized that life ain’t all bad and this may be the way I finally—finally—start writing creative prose again.

And I am feeling a gabillion times better. So the moral of the story is 1. Never eat vegetables, and 2. Do stuff when you feel like worthless shit. It’s basically the cocaine of not-drugs, and you’ll immediately feel like a boss.

And now I’m going to drink wine, because you CAN do that on the ibuprofen my doc switched me to! And also does anyone have recommendations for one-handed meals? Otherwise Mr. PKB’s going to feed us pasta for a month, and no. Just no on that.