When you start your morning carefully catching each of the the four quadrupeds in the house trying to figure out which one left the blood trail on the kitchen floor only to realize that it was you that left it, you know it’s going to be one of those days.
I stepped on a shard of glass in my bedroom on Saturday morning. I didn’t even remember breaking a glass in the bedroom, but the inch long shard says that I did. Bandaged it up and didn’t think about it again. By yesterday afternoon, it seemed that the bleeding had stopped. But apparently it opened back up while I was getting water at o’dark thirty this morning. It seemed like such a little thing. Doesn’t even hurt. But dang! Holes in feet bleed a lot.
At least the felines seemed to appreciate extra morning snuggles.
Yes, it’s true. Guns are bad news for women. The only person I’ve ever injured with a firearm is myself.
And this isn’t the first time either. See here and here. And again, I’ve become yet another victim of a gun related injury.
(Fair warning, a bit of boob, but nothing indecent)
If you are thinking that looks an awful lot like an imprint of .45 ACP there on some rather tender skin, you would be correct.
You see, I was dressed a bit…um…inappropriately for my first outing with the schpiffy (yep, made that word up, just now) new pistol. You know, the one that matches my schpiffy manicure.
The brass had been bouncing off my safety glasses and collar bone, so that first contact didn’t phase me much. Then it rolled down and stuck. At that point, I put my finger in register to set my loaded firearm safely on the bench pointed down range before proceeding with the hot brass dance. During that procedure, it became unstuck (but not before burning enough to make a blister) and rolled into my shirt creating the perfect imprint of a very hot .45 acp casing. Under the watchful, and concerned eyes of every other person shooting on the range, I removed the offending brass and finished out the magazine. It wasn’t until leaving the indoor range and getting out into the sun that I realized that this was a bit more serious than the typical hot brass burn. Thankfully, I carry BurnAid* in the car in the first aid kit. (Don’t you?)
And oh that FNP-45 tactical shoots like a dream. My very first shot, I hit the decocker and shot it double action. Bullseye! And the reset for the single action trigger? It is a thing of beauty. Nice positive click that tells me, “Hey you know what? I’m ready to go again.”
But you know, once you’ve sent over 100 rounds through that nice hole in the target in about 15-20 minutes, it gets HOT. Really, really hot. Once that slide and barrel heat up that much, there’s not really anything to absorb that heat anymore. And the brass? HOT!
FN puts in a very aggressive claw to throw out the brass.
That bad boy throws the brass right back at the shooter. Had I been following my own instructions like wearing a ball cap and a high necked shirt, I wouldn’t have had a problem. But you see, I don’t listen to my own advice.
*Yes, the BurnAid I have was a free sample. They were handing them out to everyone that attended that particular fire and rescue trade show. Might’ve even run into AD there before I knew who he was. It rocks and I would happily accept more to review in case of future injury. And since I have a category devoted to injuries, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll need it again. Have I mentioned I like fire too?
Because I am too inept to keep from hurting myself in the kitchen. Therefore, even though the vast majority of people know better than to run their finger around the sharp lip to try to get out every last ounce of cream of mushroom, they should be banned.
Truly, they are like ticking time bombs. Accidents waiting to happen. Even if you’ve been using them everyday for years, one day you will snap and slice open your trigger finger right along that last joint. You will then be far too preoccupied with keeping the blood* out of dinner that you will fail to take a picture to accompany the subsequent blog post.
Indeed, these assault cans should be banned for the good of the people. No one needs such easy and speedy access to their soup. Did you know that just by having them in your home that you are 50 times more likely to bleed on your tea towels? It’s true. Like all statistics. Won’t someone think of the children!
Don’t listen to Campbell’s and the insidious soup lobby. They don’t care about the children. No, they just want you to have unlimited access to these instruments of danger and finger slicing. We must make it more difficult to obtain the implements of finger destruction! You can’t just let anyone handle these things. They require special training.
And yet there they sit on grocery store shelves. No one even checks an ID. Why, it’s a grocery store loophole! They don’t even carry warnings about the inherent dangers. Husbands will nonchalantly hand the open cans to their wives and then giggle** when they inevitably hurt themselves. The internet is bound to be full of videos that demonstrate that point.
We’ve got to ban the cans. For our fingers’ sake.
*The amount of blood that comes out of a cut like this is really pretty impressive.
**no, he didn’t giggle at the time. The giggle came later and was totally justified.
Why yes, I did just find a self-deprecating way to make fun of the gun control crowd! My talents, they are wide and varied but do not include the culinary arts.
Maybe, just maybe, drunken sparing in a friend’s living room wasn’t the smartest idea. But hubby and I had to do something while they were putting together the hide-a bed for us. Hubby won. I’m way too nice to kick him in his already bad knees.
For Jennifer’s 1st lesson of 2011, drunken sparing leads to swollen and hurty pinky fingers.
Don’t worry, it was that crooked before. Broke it a long time ago. Playground fight with a boy. I must say, typing so far is way more painful in 2011 than it was in 2010.
I’ve been suffering with this weird pain for the last few days. It feels like I pulled a muscle. Which would be completely normal for someone as accident prone as I am, but it’s a strange muscle and I can’t figure out how I possibly could have pulled it.
It’s the muscle on the right side of my jaw. It’s even kind of swollen. I’m afraid to ask the internet how this is possible. I know how the internet thinks and we are pretending this is a family friendly site. And yet, I go to Google anyway.
Apparently, you canpulla musclein your face. Guess I was grinding my teeth. I’ve had issues with TMJ for years too. Ah what would we do without Dr. Google? But hey, it gives me a chance to add a random injuries category. I’m sure it will have plenty of content. In fact, there are already some posts that belong there.
See what I did there? I don’t really have anything meaningful to write about today and so I directed you to old stuff. It’s because I love you all so very much.
When you’re zeroing in on that gold bead front sight to make a long range shot with your .357, don’t lean in. Don’t forget that the last box of .357 Magnum that you picked up was a little extra spicy.
If you do, you may wind up with a gash that looks like this.
Which bears a striking resemblance to the shape of this.
Yep. That would be my big N frame .357. Not my little snubby. Hasn’t happened with the scores of spicy .357 rounds that I’ve put through it. And no, not even Michael’s .44 Magnum has ever bitten me like that. Now I know why they call it a blade site.
But I did make the shot. Barely.
When someone presents some moronic hair-brained scheme to my mother, she always asks, “Do I have idiot stamped on my forehead?” I sent her the picture so she would know what that looked like.
(Welcome Breda readers! I promise, I’ll get your comments approved shortly.)
I know I’ve mentioned my love of fabulous shoes. Actually, I’m a slave to great shoes. But it’s voluntary servitude. It won’t be required for another few months. (Why yes, I did just slip in a snide comment about Obama there.)
And the lovely green tape peeking through. Apparently, I broke my toe last night. This is not exactly an unusual occurrence for me. The unusual part is that I don’t have a clue how I did it. I must have kicked something on the way to bed last night. Either that, or I’m kicking Michael in his sleep really hard.
Any unexplained bruises this morning dear?
All I really know is that every time the covers brushed across my left foot, pain shot up my leg. This morning, it was misshapen and swollen. Once I put weight on it, it turned colors. Maybe I could write a musical: Jennifer and Her Toe of Many Colors. I’ll cast an Osmond. Now that I look at the picture, I realize the entire foot is swollen. So. Very. Attractive.
No, I have not gone to the doctor. I went to a doctor for a broken toe many years ago, and he just taped it to the next one. You know what? I have tape, and it’s in such a fetching color. I bet Mr. I-have-a-lot-of-letters-after-my-name-and-so-I’m-better-than-you doesn’t have tape in AstroTurf green. Besides, I’m just getting used to the idea of not being able to get an appointment anyway. (Yep, I did it again.)
And did I dig to the nether regions of my closet for sensible shoes? Oh hell no! Maybe now Mr. Giver-of-Crocs will take pity on me. Don’t you see what I will do to make sure my feet are outfitted in style? I could have totally rocked a pair of these today