Kids, never listen to your mother

We had guests over yesterday, and after everyone finished their hamburgers my mom made me go cut up watermelon for everyone. I say made because she seems to think I'm the permanent cutter of all fruit weighing over 5 lbs. and it's getting to be a bit annoying what with her penchant for having watermelon cut just right every hour, on the hour. 

At any rate, I begrudgingly got up to go cut it, at which point five different people started yelling at me that I was doing it wrong. You have to WASH the watermelon first apparently, even though NO ONE eats the rind. And then, I wasn't washing it properly, either killing trees or spreading disease. And THEN, I wasn't cutting it properly. One should cut in quarters. All I have to say is that if you don't like the way I do it, do it yourself. 

In a moment of utter boredom a few days ago, I sharpened every single knife in the kitchen. This is a new fetish or something, but these knives were SHARP, and I was glad. So I'm just about to finish cutting the first slice of the stupid, clean watermelon when I drive the very sharp, very long blade into my hand. Blood spurts EVERYWHERE. My face, my clothes, the watermelon, the floor. And then, because my mom wouldn't let me take a first aid class back in high school, all over the sink because I promptly stick my hand under cold water and just let the damn thing bleed. For the record, blood feels very warm when it is gushing all over you. And telling a person that the spatter on your face looks like freckles is not helpful. 

After spending an hour and a half in Urgent Care with absolutely no reading material because SOMEONE forgot to grab my brother's Roald Dahl collection from the car, I got out of there with 9 stitches and a tetanus shot. Of course the whole time that we were waiting I had to explain to my mother why it was that it was completely her fault. I don't think she understands that since she is the one that made me do it, she should be the one to take responsibility for it. 

I got back at her on the car ride back though, when I started describing, in detail, exactly how they were stitching me up. And while I live for things like this, my mother is THE most squeamish person I've ever met. You can't even say the words blood, stitches, or hey mom, come look at the inside of this cow eyeball to her. I tried that last one while I was taking physiology and it did not play over well. 

So the picture below could have been much more gruesome but my mom probably would have killed me. Apparently I made her feel sick with my tales of gushing blood last night. I took several much better up-close shots where you can really see the blood and gore. But this is good too.