D.I.Yep I’m an Idiot

I climbed on the corner table. Short, and square, it fits perfectly between the couch and love seat. Exactly the right height for installing the new blackout blinds we brought home from the hardware store. Most afternoons, the sun beams directly through our westward facing windows. The temperature, brought down to comfortable levels during the day by air conditioning boxes, can be all but eliminated in a few short minutes of glare.

I raised one of the side brackets to the top corner. I marked drill spots through its holes with a pen. Holding a screw against the ink dot with one hand, I tapped the head using my hammer to give me better purchase when drilling it in. My wife got pulled into the kitchen to help one of the minions with something or other, so I decided to continue on with the project by my own muy macho manly self.

I balanced the electric screwdriver on top of the window using one hand to hold both the bracket and the screw in place. I bumped into the glass (probably with my gut) followed by the sound of a loud thunk. My fingers shifted and dropped both the bracket and screw. I’m certain a few choice words were uttered as is my usual modus operandi when dropping things I shouldn’t oughta drop. I remember looking down to see where they went and noticing something strange about the screwdriver. It wasn’t on the floor. Not rolling off the edge of the table either. Instead, it stood upright, held by the bit end disappearing into my bare foot.

“Honey.” I didn’t shout. I simply spoke in a loud voice to directly communicate my urgency. “I need your help.”

She peeked her head around my leg and squeaked, “Oh my god.”

“Yeah… Um, you’re going to have to pull that out for me.”

We told the younger minion to leave the room since he has a healthy aversion to the sight of blood. Having watched many seasons of ER and NY Med, we thought we had some idea of what to expect. My intensely brave wife tore off a rather large stack of paper towels, placed them around the bottom of my foot, took a deep breath and prepared for the procedure.

Images of the next few minutes flip across my mind’s eye resembling a blurred, black and white slide show. She took the mechanism with both hands (No, not in a pervy way. You dirty birds.) and, summoning greater intestinal fortitude than either of us knew she possessed, gave it an upward yank. Not realizing they weren’t permanently connected, the bit and its connector remained upright in my foot. She tossed the driver aside, gripped the part of the bit still exposed, took another deep breath and in one swift motion pulled it out.

(Grossness followed that I won’t describe any further. Now is the proper time to use your imagination.)

A short time later in Urgent Care, my doctor asked the question of the day, “Why weren’t you wearing shoes?” Being that she was about to insert a catheter into the wound and clean it out, I chose to hold back any snarky attitude and remained silent. I’m not that stupid (Keep your judgment to yourselves please.) Up until that moment, I don’t have memories of feeling any pain.

Now let’s pause and allow me to explain something that should not require an explanation.

When you are a dumbass (and apparently I am one), you tend to forget that nerves run in a vast network spreading throughout the entire human body. It’s a complex system developed over millions of years allowing signals to travel both to and from the brain informing of sensations pleasant and unpleasant. A kiss usually feels pretty good. The nerves in your lips let the brain know that nice things are happening and you would like them to continue. A foreign object twisting around inside an accidental hole in your foot searching for dirt or other objects that might cause infection? Well let’s just say it sends signals of a more sucky kind. Take note: Washing the INSIDE of your foot with saline solution isn’t a process I recommend highly.

Don’t. Do. It.

In addition, when an x-ray technician manhandles said punctured foot, you tend to hold it against her. Judging by the framed photos of family on the desk, she appeared to be a nice, kind lady. Smiling and frolicking with kids and such. If I were to judge by the amount of shoving and twisting she applied to my poor, freshly wounded appendage, I would say she missed her more appropriate field as a sadistic, military regime interrogation by torture specialist. Fortunately the results came back with no broken bones and nothing permanently damaged other than my pride.

To sum things up, wear shoes when you do work around the house. Learn from me. I give this vital information to you for free. Unless you want to pay me something. If you’ve made it to this point in the story, you should know by now that I’m not that proud. I take donations. I even have a Paypal account.


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