OW OW OW F'ING OW

So, I sliced the hell out of my left index finger last night.

No, I wasn't being careless with a knife. Some idiot* left a razor lying face up under a pile of things, and when I reached down to grab things from that pile to sort them, my finger caught and dragged across the blade at just the right angle to slice off a wide strip of skin from my fingertip. It's not deep, but it's broad, and it hurts like a mofo (because it's on my fingertip, where so many nerves are). Imagine a skinned knee, but on my fingertip instead.

It also bled like a stuck pig, soaking through bandages like crazy. I managed to stop it last night by wrapping it in several paper towels** and taping them in place because Band-Aids just weren't up to the task. But when I changed the bandage this morning (because I couldn't get anything done with a freaking clown nose around my finger), it started bleeding again.

This is the second bandage, applied by a family member. You can see how the
cotton is completely soaked through.  You DON'T want to see the first bandage. 

I say this not for sympathy (although I'll gladly take well-wishes) but to say the following:

1. Don't bury sharp things under other things. Just... don't. 
2. It's amazing how much blood a superficial cut can make. My bathroom looked like an abattoir by the time I was finished. 
3. It's really hard to open first aid supplies without an index finger. Band-aids, apparently, need two functioning hands to properly open and apply.

*Sadly, I was that idiot.

** Why not gauze? Because as I discovered last night, it's hard to open those glued paper packages with just one hand and a couple fingers from the other. It's even harder when blood is running down my hand, dripping everywhere, and generally getting that paper wet so that it just tears off in little pieces like soggy tissue. Paper towels, meanwhile, I could just grab and rip off by the handful.

Monday Gunday: My very own "Condition Derp" moment

Having made it through the TSA checkpoint without being molested (or detained...) I have an hour or so to kill before my flight leaves. This should give me just enough time to write up a quick post on what happened to me this morning.

In continuing my practice of "I admit it when I screw up so that I can be a useful example to others of what not to do," I have to confess that I derped so hard this morning that if someone had wanted to hurt me, there would have been little to nothing I could have done to stop him.

To begin with, I am not a morning person. I am so, so not a morning person that, as far as I'm concerned, life doesn't begin until at least 10 am, and truly civilized people wait until noon to conduct their affairs.

However, I have a 3:15 flight this afternoon, and the combination of 1)  driving to Orlando from Daytona, B) flying with a checked firearm in my luggage, and III ) getting through the TSA checkpoint  led me to believe that I needed to leave the house as soon as I was functional. So I left at approximately 9:30 am, just after walking the dogs, and at around 10 am I was gassing up my car.

Despite being at a gas station in a place that I wasn't familiar with, I was completely oblivious due to being up too early. I was leaning against the car, my attention on the gas gauge as the numbers spun, and my mental acuity was somewhere between "beige" and that low electrical hum you hear from transformers. In other words, I was completely and utterly in Condition White:

White is the lowest level on the escalator. In Condition White one is unaware, not alert, oblivious. This state can be characterized as "daydreaming" or "preoccupied". People in White tend to walk around with their heads down, as if watching their own feet. They do not notice the impending danger until it literally has them by the throat http://www.teddytactical.com/SharpenBladeArticle/4_States%20of%20Awareness.htm

So there I was, mindlessly pumping gas, when the first thing I became aware of was that there was a voice -- a male voice -- behind me and to my left, and it was talking to me.  Unfortunately, I still can't recall WHAT that voice was saying -- all I know is that  my brain made that skipping sound associated with vinyl records as it went "WHO WHAT HOLY SHIT MAN BEHIND ME SNEAKED UP OH GOD ROBBERY MURDER ALERT ALERT."

Condition Derp.  Also, she's holding it wrong. 

I suppose it's a good thing that I'm naturally jumpy, as those reflexes served me in good stead today. The first thing I did -- the only sensible thing I did in this situation -- was to whirl around while jumping backwards, putting the fender of my car between me and him. My hand clawed uselessly at my hip for the gun that wasn't there, because I had packed it for travel.

I suppose that maybe I could have pulled the hose out if I had needed to, but I'm not convinced it would have had enough pressure to douse an assailant anyway.

Fortunately for me (and thank God for looking out for fools, small children, and Erin Palette), the person behind me wasn't some random assailant but actually someone who knew me, had recognized my car, and was saying something like "Hey, what are you doing here?". Mind you, I only found this out after he had finished slapping his knee and laughing at me for jumping out of my skin.

This could have gone so much worse than it did. If this had been an actual assailant, he could have easily mugged me, or stolen my car if I put it between me and him. This was a dramatic wake-up call for me (both figuratively and literally in my case) and I'm telling you this now to help reinforce in me that I need to be aware of my surroundings every time I leave my house.

A gun is a good tool for self-defense, but it is not THE tool. That honor belongs to your brain -- but only if you use it!

Things Salem Should Never Be Allowed Near, Volume 2

I'm a very technically adept person with computers. I have a fairly good idea, despite only some basic training by a major OEM that I used to work for, about the various intimate functions of computer components. I built my own gaming rig. I've repaired a laptop or two in my time. I've fixed countless broken desktop computers, and was a senior level tech in the phone support division of the previously mentioned OEM. This is all important to note in context because when it comes to certain machines, I really have no idea what I'm doing.

 I have a miracle of a car. It's a 1991 Toyota Corolla, with around 135,000 miles on it. The engine runs well, the transmission shifts smoothly. There's no radio, on account of it being stolen when I lived in a Texas ghetto. There's a crack that runs off in a few different directions, nearly forming a crosshair on my windshield. The AC quit working, and the rolly-knob thing fell off of the window crank. But, despite all that, it still starts and it still runs.

An apt analogy of me working on a car.

Despite my complete ignorance as to how it works. Over the past few years, the car's developed an interesting problem. Immediately after making the return trip from Alabama to Texas for a work-related hurricane relocation, the car completely shut off not a half a mile from my apartment. In the process of attaching jumper cables, it sprang back to life, headlights winking on, and the key-noise-maker-whats-it bonging irritatedly at me from inside the cabin. Since then, it's periodically lay in wait for me to go somewhere, only to completely die when I turn the key, only for the dash lights to come back on when I let go of it.

For a while, I would open the hood, scratch my head confusedly, and play with whatever I could find that would move, or at least seem pliable. At one point, I was literally repairing the car by popping the hood, hitting various parts with a wrench, then turning the key. I eventually narrowed down the culprit to the battery terminals. The positive terminal clamp thing had come loose, so I tightened it. Problem solved! Car was starting and driving normally.

Only computer dog understands me.

Albuquerque's winter proved too much and, as I was irrationally afraid of working on the car, I was back to readjusting the terminal clamp every time I needed to drive somewhere, and again when I needed to drive back. The last time it happened, the clamp was so corroded that it literally fell apart in my hands. I caught a ride with my boss to have the battery tested (it needed to be replaced) and buy new clamps, but when I went to put them on, the bolt holding the clamp in place was so corroded and stuck I couldn't turn it. I sat for a bit, scratching my head and remembering basic science. I then set to work tearing the old clamp apart and creating a mass of ugly, shredded, crap-covered metal that would fit into the new clamp. Then I fastened the new clamp to the dessicated corpse of the old clamp, tightened the bolts on it, and was quite pleased with myself when the car started.

I was doubly pleased with myself when I saw the look on the mechanic's face when he saw what I'd done. He personally loosened the bolt with several complicated looking vices and wrenches, then removed the shredded mess that was the old clamp so that I could properly attach the new clamp, which he informed me wasn't even the right type (but would still work). All free of charge.

The moral of this story is that Salem should never be let under the hood of a car, nor anywhere near a proper set of tools.