Friday, January 27, 2017

Return of the Gypsy Curse, Or Why Cuisinart is an Agent of Satan


As some of you may remember, in the town of Alcala de Henares on a cold March morning in 2007, I was literally cursed by a gypsy when I muttered in Spanish that I didn't have any cash on me (I really didn't). Since that day, a number of bizarre, yet oddly fitting curse-like things have happened to me... there's an entire blog post for reference if you're in need of a good laugh. Recently, I had erroneously believed the curse had been lifted after I had a demon thorn surgically excised from my finger. Shortly thereafter I went on the second first date with my now husband (shoutout to my wonderful spouse!). Suddenly things seemed to be going my way again. I even won a raffle for a book in class!! I actually won something! There have been a few incidents including a 2nd degree burn across 3 fingers and a rapid succession of cars dying right after I bought new windshield wipers, but I was certain it had passed.

I know now I've never been more wrong. If you regularly check my snapchat stories, you'll know what is coming.

To fully explain this story, I need to take you to December 13th, 2016. On this day it was announced that Cuisinart was initiating a voluntary recall on faulty food processor blades that could fall apart (which is slightly worrisome). Ever the dutiful spouse, my husband jumped on the website and ordered replacements. In order to do so though, he had to take the covering off to read the serial number. Soon, our replacement blades arrived, and again he was quick to switch in the brand new, insanely sharp blades. Unfortunately, this was undertaken at the height of the Christmas/Birthday season, and he couldn't find the covering. Soon after, we took a week-long trip to California, and he was contacted about a new job. The food processor was forgotten. But it did not forget about us.

On the night of January 20th, we were beginning to pack our apartment to move to Fairview. We were filling a giant blue bin with various "baking implements" around the kitchen. I noticed a great spot I could squeeze in my Christmas china. I wanted to wrap it in one of my new Christmas hand towels I had acquired in order to keep it protected in the bin. Whilst my husband was rustling through our post-Christmas piles, I casually reached toward the china to pick it up. Suddenly I felt a sharp tug on the back of my hand. I look down, and saw a huge gash with blood quickly seeping out. A number of profanities left my mouth, as I was too busy making sure my tendons still worked to remember how to ask for help in English. This is all according to my husband at least, because I was running off pure adrenaline and my memory is fuzzy at best. At first, my husband just called out to ask if I need anything. I start repeating the profanities more urgently. He finally comes running into the kitchen with a hand-towel from the Christmas pile in hand. This is essentially how the ensuing conversation went down... Husband: "What's wrong?" Me: "Profanity!!" Husband: "Oh my gosh, what should I do??" Me: "Profanity... [frantic pointing toward towel!]".

(I will include a picture of the setting, but not a picture of the large gash)

This was taken after returning home for context for family and friends I retold the story to later. Uncovered blade in the foreground, china in the background. Miscellaneous other clutter around it. 

With the towel firmly in place around my hand, we rushed over to the urgent care (my husband was sweet enough to braid my hair for me, because it was more wild than medusa's and my bloody-gash hand couldn't do anything). I was chatty and pleasant with the nurse and the doctor, and they had it cleaned out and stitched up in a jiffy. I was too concerned about getting out of there to mention that I have an insy sensitivity to latex. The warm and fuzzy nurse let me pick out the color of the bandage, and they wrapped it up with firm instructions not to remove or change the bandage for at least 3 days.

Warning, picture of stitches ahead:

Contrary to popular belief, that's my hand.. not my arm. 

That night, I could tell that the numbing shot was beginning to wear off, but I figured I should tough it out. I woke up at 3:00 am to a burning sensation in my hand. It hurt SO. BAD. It felt like it was on fire. Now, I've walked 10 miles in the snow on a torn MCL. I'm not one to usually let pain get the better of me. I went out to the couch and just sat there cradling my hand for 45 minutes. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I ripped off the bandage and saw angry, red, inflamed skin all around where the bandage had been sitting. The gash had swollen and I had little welts everywhere. I woke up my husband, and we rummaged through our medicine drawer looking for latex free bandaging with no success. The snowstorm just hit as he went stumbling out the door towards our Walgreens at 4 in the morning for supplies. Needless to say, our packing got off to a rough start.

So, what are the morals of this story? First, if a scary gypsy lady asks you for money, find an ATM. Second, never move. Third, just throw away your food processors, there is no need for anything that sharp on anything that doesn't belong to a ninja. And, Fourth, always disclose a latex sensitivity.