This evening was a thriller for me. For the first time in my life, I was in possession of a dangerous weapon. I probably should have waited to handle it when my husband was home in case I needed someone to drive me to the nearest emergency room. After all, I am fully capable of injuring myself with even the most benign objects. I had done so twice in the past two days.
Yesterday I noticed that my cotton T-shirt was looking quite wrinkled. It was freshly washed and hung but still managed to look like a Shar Pei, only not cute and a poor reflection of my domestic priorities. Every dress shirt Mike owns is a non-iron shirt for a reason; I do not like to iron. I was definitely not going to book a rendezvous with that darned contraption for just a cotton T-shirt. However, as I had done in the past when facing a similar dilemma, I thought I could simply expand my curling iron’s duties. After fixing my hair, I grabbed the grossly wrinkled v-neck for its first ever hair-styling adventure. Before I could think about how cleverly MacGuyver-ish I was being, I felt real pain from my neck. I managed to scorch my skin. Obviously, millions of people out there can totally relate to me. We have ALL burned our necks ironing our shirts on our bodies with our curling irons, right? No? Well, I must be in the elite league of dorks. That day, despite the temperatures reaching into the sunny mid-70’s, I had a lovely scarf tied tightly around my neck to hide what looked like a hickey gone wrong. I may have been sweating all afternoon from my overheated neck. Not only was I extra sweaty, but my shirt was still wrinkled.
Today I was dutifully applying sunscreen in preparation for a run outside. This is not normally known to be risky behavior. In fact, my young children manage to conquer this feat unharmed on a regular basis. They may have residual white marks finger painted all over their bodies, but they do not draw blood. While liberally applying broad spectrum protection on my arms, I again felt pain. Somehow my right hand had scratched my left arm skin that I found under my fingernail. My arms may be safe from skin cancer, but what will protect them from my own claws? The flesh wound (“It’s only a flesh wound!”) looked like many of the canyons I see in the Southwest. (I may be prone to slight exaggeration, but in truth that is what came to mind.) Now to complement my neck hickey, I had what looked like needle tracks on my inner arm. How badly would it look to wear a scarf around my forearm? Would I rather have my fashion sense questioned or be suspected of IV drug use?
Tonight’s thriller involved a friend’s gun she let me borrow. It was small, but still knowing my recent self-inflicted injuries, I was slightly anxious about using it for the first time. As if to accentuate how out of my element I was with this, it was a pink gun covered in animal print tape. Did I mention it was a hot glue gun? You may think the descriptive of “glue” makes is totally innocuous, but not in the hands of someone who has never stepped inside a Hobby Lobby or created a Pinterest account. Having two boys, the only other pink thing I saw today was my newly exposed skin in my baby canyon on my arm. I am more used to being told that one brother farted on the pillow and then told the other brother to smell it. Yet like most hip and happening, wild and crazy party animals, I was dedicating a portion of my Saturday night to making photo booth props for the upcoming school book fair. In my desperate Google searches, I read somewhere a recommendation for this foreign object called a glue gun. Luckily my book fair co-hort is very creative and resourcefully crafty. When I asked if she happened to have said object, she not only had it but offered one of many. I am so glad I got the pink, animal print one. It heightened the excitement of my weekend.
Thankfully I successfully made the props without anything remotely close to bodily harm. At one point while the boys watched their mom, I wondered if they would be reliable enough to call 911 were I to cover myself with hot glue. They might think, ‘Mom, if we can trick each other into smelling our own farts, we are genius enough to dial 3 numbers.’ I am glad we did not need to test that theory. While crafting with a hot glue gun should be considered high-risk behavior in my book, the only things to join sky-diving and bungee-jumping this weekend were curling irons and sunscreen application.