It was a fantastic deal. With the promo going on at QFC and the printable coupons, each shiny jar of Classico pasta sauce was $0.62 a piece. I couldn't make sauce for that.
I spent a portion of my days blissfully googling recipes I could make beyond the standard fare of gluten free spaghetti and sauce...Minestrone! That's where I would start first. Oh how I looked forward getting my hands on the little beauties. They would fill out the pantry so pleasantly. And the meals I could make for friends... oh, I was drunk off the deal as you can see. It happens from time to time.
I gleefully told friends and family that like to save exactly how and when to make this dream, er, this deal, a reality. My sister Rose was JUST as excited as I was and passed it along to her friends. Here I was, saving the world one jar of Classico at a time! Cough cough.
I went to the store and collected the sauce. Four jars it would take to make the deal happen, but I decided on eight. I felt a momentary pang of something. Selfishness? Worries I was becoming a hoarder? Maybe, but I don't even think it was quite that. I just wondered if I really needed to be doing what I was doing, and for some bizarre reason, if it was right. Who thinks about if it's the right thing to do to buy 8 jars of pasta sauce? <points thumbs enthusiastically at chest> THIS GIRL!
Despite the bizarre hesitation I bought the jars and brought them home. The canvas bag which held them was quite heavy, and so there they would sit in my kitchen until I brought them downstairs to put away in the basement food cubby.
They sat in the corner of the kitchen for days until a rainy Sunday afternoon in April when, while watching "The Blind Side" in what can be described only as "I've given up" pajamas and with pure disgust realized it was 11 am and I'd done absolutely nothing productive so far that day (pre-child days I would have never felt bad for such a thing). I paused the movie, and in a fit of slight discomfort went to put on a pair of fuzzy pink socks that my mom let me "borrow" only to never be in possession of them again.
With my toes properly cared for in fuzzy magenta socks I set out to do the bare minimum of guilt assuaging cleanup: I was going to put away the jars of sauce.
I hoisted the bag on my shoulder (it was heavy and awkward), opened the door to the basement, successfully navigated two entire stairs (Go me!), then slipped on my fuzzy magenta socks and saw my life flash before my eyes as I taboganed down the incline. About midway down the steps the jars crashed together and as my hand instinctively reached down to grip something, it landed with force on an open jar of discount black olive and mushroom..
Within seconds it looked like a very violent Al Pacino movie; Blood and sauce and glass EVERYWHERE. I didn't really feel pain, but knew I was hurt and bad and said as much repeatedly, out loud: "I'm hurt. Bad."
I called my mom because what else is a single 34 year old woman to do in a matter like this? She told me to call 911 and when I refused she told be she'd be over as soon as she could and to wrap up my hand.
I could feel the adrenaline rushing through my body (thank you sweet adrenaline for helping me feel no pain) and knew I needed to sit outside before I passed out. I had managed to not shed a single tear at this point (stop laughing everyone that knows me), that is, until my sweet neighbor driving my with her two kids knew something was amiss (not the fact that I looked like something dragged out of the drain - they see that frequently) and hopped out of the car to check on me.
Being the badass woman she is, this neighbor who I shall refer to as H, took care of business by grabbing up the kids, taking me back inside, and cleaning up the blood I had trailed around my living room. To commiserate with my pain, her kids told me stories about injuries they had heard about, and not to be outdone, the not quite four year old told me a story that he was clearly not supposed to have hear about the man who had recently tried to remove his "business." This brought some necessary levity to the situation.
It only took ten minutes for my mom and dad to arrive which is quite the feat considering they are usually very cautious (read: slow) drivers and it typically takes no less than 15 minutes to get to my place (*favorite child). I sat teary in the back of the car (why do I cry when people are concerned about me?) and in about thirty minutes I was in a room at the ER laughing about the hilariousness of it all including asking myself the big questions: why is it that every single time I go to the ER I'm not wearing a bra?
I sat confidently on the hospital bed thinking the worst was over (no, no it wasn't) until the Dr. who was ridiculously nice and good looking, told me the next thing he was going to do was going to hurt. Bad. Thinking I am far tougher than I am I scoffed at his claim and proceeded to sob violently as he injected lidocaine about 30 times deep into the laceration. After the cleaning and the X-rays and the stitches the the prescription for pain pills I was good to go.
Several months later I received what I hope will be my final bill of $3,000.00 (that's with insurance). I'm not sure what hurt more, the lidocaine, or handing over my debit card.
Thank god for savings.
|My bloody hand on a giant diaper. You should all me thanking me for not showing you the injury.|
*Siblings reading this: that was for comic effect. I don't think I'm the favorite child (**but I am)