My dad could cut himself on a cotton ball.
I am his daughter.
Joel and I were chatting with my mom last weekend, and the whole I-got-my-hand-caught-in-a-Kitchen-Aide incident came into play.
'Did you hear about this?' Joel says to my mom.
'Oh, well, she comes by it honestly,' she replies, and then launches into a story of how my dad hurt himself on some seemingly innocuous household tool.
Yesterday, she mentioned in an email that my dad had sprained his ankle, to which I replied, 'How? Chasing Koala? Getting out of bed?' Because he would.
Twenty minutes later, I was reaching into the washing machine to pull out some wet towels, and then nail on my middle finger bent back, about two millimeters below that line where your nail leaves the nail bed. And stayed that way. I had to stare at it and scream a little bit before I could push it flat again. Now there's a dark red line arcing across my nail bed, and a little bit of sub-nail bleeding. I'd take a picture and show you, but again, broken camera.
Papa, I feel your pain. Let us go and live in a down-feather world, safe from all sharp objects and table legs.